LET  US  GO  AFIELD 


SAFETY  FIRST! 


Photograph  by  E.  Hough. 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 


BY 

EMERSON    HOUGH 

Author  of 

"The  Mississippi   Bubble."    "  54° -40'  or  Fight/* 
"The  Story  of  the  Cowboy."  "Out  of  Doors."  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
EMERSON  HOUGH 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 1913, 1914, 1915, 1916,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 


LIURAIIY 

UIM\  KKsrn  ui  <; .\UFORNU 

JBAitliAIU 


To 
J.  B.  H. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT    ....  3 

II.  BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 23 

III.  ANGLING  EXTRAORDINARY 49 

IV.  THE  INCONNU — WHAT  IT  Is  NOT      ...  67 
V.  IN  THE  JEWEL  Box 83 

VI.  THE  GREAT-GAME  FIELDS  OF  THE  WORLD  .        .  99 

VII.  THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 121 

VIII.  RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 149 

IX.  WEALTH  ON  WINGS 171 

X.  BEAR-HUNTING — THE  SPORT  OF  PRESIDENTS      .  207 

XI.  HUNTING  THE  DEER 241 

XII.  GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY  ....  263 

XIII.  A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM    ....  285 

XIV.  WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING?    ....  305 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Safety  first ! Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Canoeing  in  the  fall 16 

Atlantic  salmon  jumping  a  dam  during  the  "run"  to 

fresh  water  for  breeding 50 

The  heart  of  the  Sierras 86 

How  about  it? 100 

The  old  days 124 

Canvasback,  redheads,  and  greater    scaup  ducks     .  178 

Night  life  in  the  forest 246 


I 

YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 


I 

YOUR   SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 

IN  our  schoolboy  lyceum  days  we  were  accus- 
tomed to  discuss  the  momentous  question :  "Re- 
solved, that  the  pleasures  of  anticipation  sur- 
pass those  of  realization."     The  ayes  had  it,  or 
ought  to  have  had  it.     It  was  wasted  time  to  dis- 
cuss such  a  certainty  as  that. 

Look  back  over  the  realizations  of  your  own  life, 
and  set  them  over  against  the  fond  dreams  you 
once  had  about  what  you  thought  your  life  was 
going  to  be.  You  will  be  very  apt  to  conclude  that 
anticipation  has  realization  backed  off  the  boards 
when  it  comes  to  solid  comfort.  The  real  pleasure 
of  life  consists  in  dreaming  of  things  we  want  to 
do.  The  most  interesting  reading  in  the  world  is 
that  which  tells  us  about  ourselves  as  we  would  like 
to  be,  or  about  things  we  would  like  to  do,  or  about 
how  to  get  things  we  want  to  get.  For  my  own  part, 
I  always  thought  the  wholly  impractical  pages  of  a 
sporting  goods  catalog  were,  in  the  light  of  a  true 
philosophy,  the  finest  reading  in  the  world.  In  that 

3 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

literature  lies  at  least  the  anticipation  of  true  hap- 
piness, and  the  ayes  always  have  it. 

It  does  not  make  the  slightest  difference  in  the 
world  whether  you  and  Friend  Wife  and  the  kids 
ever  really  have  that  summer  vacation  together. 
The  important  thing  is  that  you  shall  long  for  it 
and  plan  for  it.  Should  you,  by  any  chance,  realize 
a  part  of  your  plans,  you  will  not  in  the  least  have 
discounted  the  keener  delight  of  having  made  the 
plans  themselves.  Any  sportsman  knows  this.  I 
should  not  like  to  say  how  many  foreign  lands  I 
have  seen,  what  splendid  trophies  have  fallen  to  my 
prowess — in  my  dreams !  Thus,  in  a  wholly  simple 
and  inexpensive  fashion,  I  have  visited  the  wildest 
regions  of  Africa,  Asia,  and  Australia,  besides  the 
more  prosaic  regions  of  my  own  land  actually  seen. 
I  have  slain  lions,  tigers,  and  elephants,  I  know 
not  what  else  in  my  dreams,  just  as  you  have  in 
yours. 

As  you  plan  for  your  summer  encampment,  you 
may  visualize  a  hotel,  a  cottage,  a  tent,  a  shack,  a 
log  camp.  Any  one  of  these  will  do  handsomely, 
but  no  doubt  you  will  most  enjoy  some  sort  of 
transient  habitation  all  your  own  which  you  have 
devised,  which  you  have  built,  and  where  you  may 
have  guests  of  your  own,  rather  than  live  as  a  guest 
in  surroundings  earlier  shared  by  many  others.  In 

4 


YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 

general,  then,  plan  to  make  your  own  house,  your 
own  camp.  You  can  be  entirely  comfortable,  you 
and  all  the  family,  in  that  way.  Indeed,  that  is  the 
only  real  way  to  go  on  a  wilderness  vacation ;  have 
it  for  your  own  and  on  your  own. 

The  tent,  as  used  for  a  family  encampment,  may 
very  well  be  large  and  commodious.  You  can  buy 
tents  into  which  you  can  put  floors  and  side  walls 
and  screen  doors,  if  you  like — tents  so  large  that  you 
can  rig  up  a  gasoline  stove  inside  and  cook  all  sorts 
of  things  in  defiance  of  all  sorts  of  weather.  In 
tents  such  as  these  you  can  have  real  cots  or  even 
real  beds. 

For  a  long  and  permanent  encampment  it  is  well 
enough  to  have  a  good  bedtick  filled  with  something 
soft — anything  soft  which  the  country  affords. 
Some  persons  like  to  sleep  on  a  cot,  although  I  never 
saw  one  which  really  was  comfortable.  If  a  cot  is 
feasible  at  all,  it  is  in  the  summertime.  The  real 
camp  bed  is  something  you  can  roll  up  in  a  bundle 
and  tie  with  a  rope. 

The  air  mattress  is  a  good  summer  bed  if  you 
like  air  mattresses.  Some  do  not  fancy  them  at 
any  season,  but  others  insist  that  they  solve  the 
whole  bed  problem.  The  air  bed  is  good  in  summer, 
if  ever.  I  have  seen  a  boy  make  a  very  good  bed 
mattress  out  of  two  or  three  canoe  cushions  of  the 

5 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

inflatable  type.  It  was  a  trifle  narrow,  but  the  boy 
himself  was  narrow. 

Blankets?  Yes,  and  plenty,  because  even  in  the 
summertime  it  often  gets  cold  in  the  woods,  es- 
pecially in  damp  weather.  It  is  pretty  hard  to  get 
a  real  man's  size  camp  bed  down  to  less  than  ten 
or  twelve  pounds  in  weight.  You  can  make  a  good 
light  bed  out  of  a  down  quilt  or  two,  faced  with  a 
light  lamb's-wool  blanket,  the  whole  covered  with 
a  silkaline  waterproof  cover,  fastened  along  the 
edges  with  snap  buttons.  You  are  no  good  as  an 
outdoor  man  until  you  have  invented  a  camp  bed  all 
your  own.  Perhaps  you  are  a  sleeping-bag  devotee. 
Ephraim  is  wedded  to  his  idols,  and  this  deponent  is 
already  sufficiently  disliked  for  his  detestation  of 
all  sleeping-bags. 

But  just  the  other  day  this  deponent  made  a  dis- 
covery in  blankets.  It  happened  in  a  big  paper  mill 
in  the  pine  woods  country.  The  blankets  were  not 
made  of  paper,  but  of  wool,  and  the  very  best  of 
wool.  In  the  manufacture  of  paper,  the  thin  film 
of  pulp  is  carried  up  out  of  the  vats  on  a  continuous 
traveling  band,  several  feet  in  width  and  perhaps 
one  or  two  hundred  feet  in  length.  This  band  is 
made  of  wool,  all  wool,  and  the  very  best  of  wool. 
If  there  is  a  fiber  of  cotton  in  it  the  paper  pulp  will 
stick  and  break  the  fabric  which  is  in  process  of 

6 


YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 

making.  Here  you  can  see  a  blanket  seven  or  eight 
feet  wide  and  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long — 
the  very  kind  of  blanket  which  perhaps  you  have 
dreamed  about  in  some  cold  winter  camp.  This  is 
the  very  best  wool  weave  that  money  will  buy. 

In  the  course  of  time  these  great  fabrics  become 
stained  and  dirty  from  the  pulp.  Once  it  was  the 
custom  to  discard  them  altogether  and  send  them 
to  the  scrap  heap.  Now  these  great  strips,  in 
most  of  the  big  paper  mills,  are  regarded  as  salvage, 
if  not  as  by-products.  When  they  begin  to  get  old 
and  stiff  they  are  taken  out  and  sent  to  the  fulling- 
mills.  Here  they  are  washed  clean  and  fulled  out 
light  and  fluffy  once  more.  After  these  treatments 
they  make  as  good  blankets  as  you  can  buy.  They 
are  cut  into  lengths  and  bound  and  offered  for  sale 
at  fifty  cents  a  pound — less  than  half  what  you 
usually  pay  for  rough  blankets,  and  less  than  a  quar- 
ter of  what  you  would  pay  for  fine  lamb's-wool 
blankets,  sometimes  taken  from  lambs  which  had 
apparently  been  running  in  cotton  fields  where  some 
of  the  cotton  jarred  off.  , 

Having  in  mind  one  more  camp  bed  for  private 
consumption,  I  accumulated  from  the  paper  mill 
above  mentioned  two  heavy  blankets,  almost  like 
rugs  in  thickness,  and  five  pairs  of  soft,  fleecy 
lamb's-wool  blankets,  soft  as  down.  Alas !  A  friend 

7 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

secured  a  part  of  these,  and  on  my  arrival  home 
Madame  fell  upon  all  the  others,  saying  their  like 
could  not  be  bought  in  town,  and  so  sequestered 
them  for  her  own  private  use.  Ah,  well!  I  will  go 
back  to  that  mill  one  day  and  get  me  a  good  camp 
bed  yet.  Should  you  yourself  ever  be  in  the  vicinity 
of  a  big  pulp  mill,  inquire  of  the  manager  what  he  is 
doing  with  his  waste  blanket  stuff.  It  may  prove  a 
bargain  in  more  senses  than  one.  I  have  never  seen 
the  like  of  the  blankets  which  I  got  in  this  way, 
brief  as  my  ownership  thereof  proved  to  be.  Of 
course,  not  all  might  prove  so  good. 

How  about  the  cooking  which  is  to  go  on  in  your 
summer  camp  ?  How  are  you  going  to  make  bread  ? 
There  are  two  good  ways,  the  Dutch  oven  and  the 
reflecting  oven.  You  will  find  the  latter  in  aluminum 
very  practical  for  making  biscuits  in  front  of  the 
fire.  For  real  bread,  precisely  such  as  grandmother 
used  to  make  in  the  fireplace,  you  may  turn  to  the 
good  old-fashioned  Dutch  oven  in  cast  iron.  It  is 
so  heavy  that  the  outfitters  offer  you  substitutes  in 
sheet  steel  or  aluminum.  Take  your  pick.  If  you 
are  a  beginner,  you  will  probably  do  better  with 
the  folding  reflector.  In  this  you  can  see  the  bis- 
cuits begin  to  burn.  In  the  other  sort,  you  do  not 
know  they  have  burned  until  you  take  off  the  lid. 

If  you  go  to  a  hotel  where  there  is  really  good 
8 


YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 

bread  and  butter,  usually  that  hotel  will  prove  to  be 
good  in  all  other  respects.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  any  camp.  There  is  something  solid  and  re- 
spectable about  good  bread  in  a  camp — that  is  to 
say,  solid  from  a  philosophical  point  of  view.  Learn 
how  to  make  bread  before  you  go  into  camp.  The 
bannock  is  but  a  makeshift.  Take  some  corn  meal 
along  also,  and  some  whole-wheat  flour.  You  will 
find  these  wholesome  in  camp  as  well  as  at  home. 
Do  not  forget  the  dried  apricots  and  prunes,  because 
you  will  need  some  sort  of  fruit  in  camp. 

In  the  summertime  you  cannot  legally  shoot  any 
game,  but  there  are  few  camping  places  where  you 
cannot  catch  some  kind  of  fish  good  to  eat.  Some 
like  fish  fried  in  bacon  fat,  and  others  say  that 
olive  oil  is  the  only  thing.  There  are  cans  of  other 
compounds  put  up  for  frying  purposes.  Do  not  for- 
get the  double  broiler  which  folds  together  with  a 
clip  on  the  two  handles.  Fish  are  very  good  broiled 
if  you  cook  them  over  a  small  hot  fire  of  coals  and 
cook  them  thoroughly  without  burning.  A  little 
charring  on  the  edge  will  not  hurt  them  any. 

As  has  so  often  been  said,  some  of  your  comfort 
will  depend  on  your  clothing.  We  generally  wear 
our  old  clothes  in  camp,  and  especially  is  this  the 
practice  with  women.  A  great  deal  is  to  be  said, 
however,  in  favor  of  clothing  made  purposely  for 

9 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

camp  wear.  You  might  blow  yourself  for  a  khaki 
skirt  for  Friend  Wife.  You,  yourself,  have  known 
how  desirable  it  is  to  have  loose,  easy,  yet  well- 
fitted  garments  in  camp.  Each  of  the  family  should 
have  a  sweater  and  some  sort  of  raincoat.  There  is 
nearly  always  a  certain  chill  around  camp  at  night. 
It  is  not  a  bad  plan  for  any  woman  to  have  a  pair 
of  rubbers  or  overshoes  somewhere  in  the  kit  bag. 
You  cannot  be  comfortable  if  your  feet  are  cold, 
and  they  will  be  cold  if  they  are  damp  after  you  quit 
work.  A  hot-water  bottle  is  an  excellent  thing  to 
have  in  camp.  If  the  weather  is  very  damp  and  the 
tent  cold,  sometimes  a  big  hot  rock  will  take  off  the 
chill.  In  one  way  or  another  you  surely  can  keep 
your  tent  warm  if  only  you  will  use  your  wits. 

The  grocery  department  ought  not  to  be  con- 
ducted too  much  on  a  catch-as-catch-can  basis.  Most 
camp  diseases  come  from  badly  cooked  or  badly  pro- 
tected food.  Have  your  flour,  bacon,  tea,  coffee, 
and  sugar  just  as  good  in  camp  as  you  do  at  home. 
Do  not  eat  underdone  fish  or  vegetables.  Do  not 
burden  yourself  with  useless  things,  but  let  the  table 
be  good  and  varied  if  your  stay  in  camp  is  to  be 
long.  Be  sure  that  you  have  good  water,  pure  water. 
A  camp  near  a  spring  is  desirable  if  the  spring  is 
pure.  If  you  are  near  cold  water  you  can  keep  the 
butter  tins  or  jars  in  good  condition  just  as  Grand- 

10 


YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 

mother  used  to  keep  her  milk  crocks  in  the  old 
spring-house  on  the  farm. 

As  to  medicines,  you  do  not  need  to  be  so  careful. 
A  box  of  pills  and  a  box  of  Sun  cholera  mixture  will 
about  fill  that  bill.  Lime-water  and  linseed  oil  will 
cure  sunburn  if  you  are  particular.  Permanganate 
of  potassium,  injected,  will  cure  snake-bite.  I  never 
carried  a  hypodermic  in  camp  in  my  life  and  have 
never  known  a  case  of  snake-bite,  but  if  you  are 
very  nervous  carry  along  the  outfit.  Your  sport- 
ing goods  dealer  will  supply  it. 

The  finest  thing  in  all  camping-out  plans  is  your 
own  personal  possible  bag.  It  is  to  hold  your  own 
toilet  articles  in  one  of  its  pockets.  You  will  want 
to  shave  and  bathe  in  camp  as  regularly  as  at  home. 
In  other  pockets  of  your  possible  bag  there  may 
be  a  spare  fishhook  or  so,  some  bachelors'  buttons 
that  clamp  on,  a  piece  of  whetstone,  a  little  rolled-up 
"housewife"  with  needles  and  thread,  and  a  pair  of 
blunt-pointed  scissors. 

Every  outdoor  man  has  some  obsession  of  his 
own.  My  own  is  that  there  should  always  be  needles 
and  thread  in  camp.  This  dates  back  to  an  early 
experience.  Once,  when  rather  young,  I  was  out  on 
a  Western  ranch,  and  while  using  a  drawing  knife 
managed  to  cut  open  my  kneecap  clear  across  and  to 
the  bone.  There  was  no  doctor  anywhere  near,  so 

ii 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

that  night  I  borrowed  a  large  needle  and  some  stout 
patent  thread  and  sewed  up  the  cut  with  a  beautiful 
buttonhole  stitch,  making,  I  should  say,  some  fifty- 
odd  stitches  in  all.  A  surgeon  would  have  been 
much  more  economical  of  his  thread,  but  I  knew 
nothing  of  surgery  at  the  time.  This  buttonhole 
stitch  held  very  well  for  about  a  week  or  ten  days, 
when  one  day,  out  hunting  on  a  rather  stiff  leg,  I 
fell  down  and  broke  open  the  entire  seam.  That 
night  I  once  more  borrowed  the  needle  and  the  black 
patent  thread,  and,  beginning  a  little  further  back 
from  the  edges,  I  put  in  a  yet  more  elaborate  button- 
hole crossing,  which  has  held  to  this  day.  Since 
my  first  look  at  the  open  cartilage  of  my  kneecap  I 
have  never  felt  like  going  into  camp  without  plenty 
of  needles  and  patent  thread,  although  as  a  matter 
of  fact  I  have  never  seen  a  use  for  either  since  that 
time.  I  presume  that  the  man  who  carries  the  hypo- 
dermic outfit  for  permanganate  of  potassium  feels 
the  same  way  about  snake  bites. 

If  you  can  get  all  or  part  of  an  old  bucktail, 
showing  the  light  and  dark  hairs,  put  it  into  your 
possible  bag.  When  all  other  baits  lack  perhaps  you 
can  make  one  out  of  this — a  dab  of  wax  and  a 
little  thread  from  your  spool  will  help  you.  Some- 
times a  little  spool  of  copper  wire  is  useful.  Your 
piece  of  whetstone  is  best  of  carborundum,  which 

12 


YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 

cuts  steel  most  quickly.  Then  you  will  have  your 
waterproof  match-box  in  the  possible  bag.  In  the 
pocket  of  your  coat,  fastened  by  the  same  thong 
which  carries  your  dog  whistle,  you  might  as  well 
have  a  good  compass.  Perhaps  you  can  get  hold  of 
a  dozen  or  so  of  the  big  torch  matches,  such  as 
travelers  in  the  Far  North  use — a  giant  match  which 
will  burn  in  the  rain  or  even  in  the  water.  This 
is  very  good  for  starting  a  fire  when  your  fingers 
are  numb. 

A  couple  of  shirts  are  sufficient  for  quite  a  season 
in  camp.  Perhaps  Friend  Wife  will  insist  on  white 
collars  at  least  once  a  week,  and  will  not  be  content 
with  flannelette  shirt  waists  all  the  time.  You  can 
do  washing  in  the  camp  just  as  you  can  at  home. 

Be  prodigal  in  stockings  and  have  them  of  heavy 
wool.  If  your  trousers  or  overalls  are  too  long, 
cut  the  bottoms  off  and  stick  the  legs  in  your  stock- 
ings. Knee  breeches  are  really  more  comfortable 
but  some  do  not  like  to  use  them.  This  clothing 
will  go  into  your  own  packbag,  into  which  also 
you  will  put  your  possible  bag  of  smaller  belong- 
ings. Have  plenty  of  pockets  in  the  carryall  bag  and 
have  a  wall  pocket  to  pin  up  in  the  tent.  You  can 
hang  a  clothes-line  along  the  ridge  pole  of  the  tent. 
Coat-hangers  you  can  make  in  camp  if  you  like — 
indeed  you  can  make  a  lot  of  things  in  camp. 

13 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

If  you  have  weak  eyes  take  along  a  pair  of  colored 
glasses  in  your  coat  pocket.  The  large  lenses  of 
amber  glass  are  best.  In  another  pocket  you  can 
carry  a  little  tube  of  mosquito  dope  if  you  think  you 
need  it.  A  paste  made  of  castor  oil  and  oil  of 
lavender,  done  up  in  a  squeeze-tube,  is  about  as 
good  as  any  contrivance,  especially  for  a  woman. 
Ammonia  or  borolyptol  will  take  out  the  sting,  but 
liquids  are  awkward  to  carry  along  in  glass. 

Cutlery?  Your  own  hunting-knife,  of  course, 
and  let  us  hope  the  blade  is  short.  Let  the  knife 
scabbard  hang  loose  on  your  belt,  especially  if  you 
ride.  Have  on  your  saddle  or  your  belt,  if  you  go 
alone  into  the  woods,  a  hand  ax  of  real  steel  with 
a  real  handle.  You  may  need  it. 

Camp  furniture?  The  question  is  one  of  trans- 
portation. If  you  are  long  in  camp  and  have  your 
family  with  you,  it  is  nice  to  have  a  regular  table 
fashioned  on  the  spot'.  There  are  usually  stumps  or 
logs  or  boxes  which  will  do  for  seats.  If  you  have 
one  of  the  five-gallon  oil  cases  in  camp,  a  square 
tin,  you  can  do  almost  anything  with  it  or  make 
almost  anything  out  of  it,  from  a  wash-tub  or  a 
stove  to  a  store-house.  A  water  pail  you  can  buy 
made  of  canvas  or  rubber,  folded.  The  Indians 
make  one  out  of  the  stomach  of  a  deer. 

When  you  come  to  pack  your  camp  belongings,  do 
14 


YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 

not  let  any  unit  of  your  outfit  run  much  over  fifty 
pounds.  Have  handles  on  each  piece.  Make  it  so 
that  it  can  be  checked,  packed,  or  carried. 

The  amount  of  duffle  you  are  to  take  depends 
much  on  the  kind  of  camp  you  are  to  have.  Per- 
haps there  are  unmarried  young  ladies  in  your  fam- 
ily. If  so,  Mamma  will  need  to  have  an  eye  to  a 
camp  pitched  somewhere  near  a  resort  or  other 
locality  infested  by  youth  of  the  opposite  'sex.  This 
means  a  certain  amount  of  flannel  shirts,  blazers, 
soft  hats,  etc.,  not  to  mention  shoes,  gloves  and  other 
belongings.  Yet  even  these  things  can  be  accom- 
modated in  camp.  In  short,  your  camp  can  very 
nearly  resemble  your  home  if  you  so  determine.  Of 
course  the  girls  will  need  some  sort  of  mackintoshes 
to  keep  their  store  clothes  dry.  The  best  sort  is 
the  light  circular  cape  of  pure  rubber  with  gathering 
bands  at  neck  and  wrists.  Either  a  man  or  woman 
may  wear  this  sort  of  waterproof. 

Your  camera  is  something  which  today  belongs 
in  your  summer  encampment  almost  as  much  as 
your  tent  or  fishing  rod.  Perhaps  you  have  an  ex- 
pensive one  and  are  fond  of  telling  friends  that  the 
lens  alone  cost  over  seventy-five  dollars.  In  that 
case  you  will  have  to  learn  how  to  shoot  your  camera 
as  you  had  to  learn  how  to  shoot  a  choke-bored  gun. 
The  fine  lenses  require  care  in  focusing.  On  a 

15 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

late  trip  into  a  remote  wilderness  country  where 
we  had  fine  photographic  equipment,  it  was  a  plain, 
commercial,  fool-proof  camera  which  cost  less  than 
twenty-five  dollars,  lens  and  all,  that  brought  home 
most  of  the  bacon.  Perhaps  you  may  have  had 
something  of  the  same  experience  in  some  of  your 
trips.  A  very  portable  camp  style  is  of  the  long, 
narrow,  folding  type.  Any  one  of  many  folding 
cameras  will  prove  quite  good  enough  to  give  you 
a  record  of  your  vacation.  Beautiful  enlargements 
are  now  made  from  small  negatives  and  the  use  of 
colored  lantern  slides  made  from  one's  negatives 
has  now  become  quite  general  among1  sportsmen. 

Of  late  years  the  movies  have  gone  into  the  wil- 
derness for  scenes  and  now  you  may  see  for  five  or 
ten  cents  the  secrets  of  the  arctic  or  tropic  wilder- 
ness. Most  of  this  is  professional  or  semi-pro- 
fessional work,  but  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when 
amateur  moving-picture  outfits  will  be  offered  at  rea- 
sonable rates.  I  have  never  heard  of  such  a  thing, 
but  offer  the  idea  to  manufacturers  free  of  charge. 
There  will  be  a  market — and  think  of  the  film  such 
outfits  will  use ! 

Suppose  we  depart  from  the  side  of  anticipation 
and  look  at  the  realization  credits  of  the  camping-, 
out  proposition.  Why  should  you  go  camping  out 
at  all  except  for  pleasure?  There  are  excellent  addi- 

16 


Photograph  by  EdwarJ  Cave. 

CANOEING  IN  THE  FALL 


YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 

tional  reasons.  It  is  the  best  business  in  the  world 
for  you  to  camp  out — and  still  better  business  for 
you  to  see  that  your  neighbor  camps  out.  This 
statement  is  entirely  susceptible  of  proof. 

The  cure  for  tuberculosis  is  outdoor  air  and  pure 
food.  Rational  and  well-conducted  camp  life  is  the 
only  thing  which  can  help  a  man  thus  afflicted.  The 
great  civilized  troubles  are  those  of  the  lungs  and  of 
the  stomach.  These  are  best  set  right  out  of  doors. 

One  state  of  the  Union  spent,  year  before  last, 
$64,000,000.00  on  people  who  did  not  camp  out 
enough.  Each  death  in  that  state  cost  for  postpone- 
ment— as  much  as  for  prevention — $3,828.00.  That 
was  the  cost  of  fighting  tuberculosis  in  each  lost 
fight.  It  did  not  cover  the  industrial  loss  to  the 
community  inflicted  by  the  death  of  the  patient. 
And  all  that  could  have  been  done  to  save  any  one 
of  these  patients  would  have  been  to  send  him  into 
the  open  air  and  into  a  good  camp. 

In  one  year  the  United  States  spent  3,200,000 
hospital  days  on  people  who  did  not  camp  out 
enough.  The  Civil  War  killed  205,700  men  in  four 
years.  In  four  years  tuberculosis  kills  800,000. 
No  army,  except  the  unthinking  army  of  civilized 
men  and  women,  could  face  such  a  percentage  of 
loss  as  that.  And  the  cure  of  it,  the  only  possible 
cure,  is  more  life  out  of  doors. 

17 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

Preventable  death,  preventable  diseases,  prevent- 
able ignorance  of  how  to  live  and  work — these  are 
the  real  wastes,  the  unspeakably  enormous  wastes 
of  our  civilized  life.  Now  that  waste,  that  cost  of 
life  and  effort,  that  inefficiency  of  the  unit,  are  things 
which  raise  the  cost  and  labor  of  life  for  every  one 
of  the  rest  of  us.  Someone  has  to  pay  for  the 
people  who  do  not  camp  out. 

Wipe  out  the  cost  of  tuberculosis  alone  and  you 
could  pay  all  the  national  debts  of  the  world.  Wipe 
it  out  for  a  year  and  you  could  pay  the  cost  of  the 
Spanish  War  and  throw  in  two  or  three  Mexican 
wars.  Wipe  it  out  for  one  year  and  you  could 
capitalize  every  national  bank  in  the  United  States 
and  have  enough  left  over  to  build  the  Panama 
Canal.  These  are  dispassionate  figures  given  by  a 
Boston  scientist. 

Certainly  the  inefficiency  charge  against  civiliza- 
tion is  an  enormous  thing.  Much  of  that  inefficiency 
is  preventable.  Much  of  it  is  preventable  in  only 
one  way,  and  that  way  is  by  a  life  in  the  open  air, 
with  good  food  and  a  well-rested  body  and  mind. 
We  would  not  dare  use  a  horse  as  cruelly  as  we 
use  ourselves.  We  would  say  it  was  not  business. 

As  to  the  realization  side  of  the  debate,  therefore, 
quite  a  showing  can  be  made  as  against  the  pleasures 
of  anticipation.  Perhaps  you  do  not  feel  as  though 

18 


YOUR  SUMMER  ENCAMPMENT 

you  and  the  family  could  afford  to  go  camping  out 
this  summer — that  it  would  cost  too  much  to  take 
the  children  out  where  they  can  roll  in  the  dirt  and 
paddle  in  the  water.  Very  well,  perhaps  you  cannot 
afford  it.  The  one  certain  thing  is  that  we  others 
cannot  afford  to  have  you  stay  at  home. 

Viewed  as  a  citizen,  viewed  as  a  unit  in  society, 
Jones  and  his  family  ought  to  go  camping  out. 
When  they  do  not,  you  and  I  have  to  foot  the  bills, 
and  it  is  a  bill  more  exorbitant,  perhaps,  than  we 
have  ever  realized.  The  case  for  the  camp  seems 
very  plain — at  least,  as  far  as  Jones  is  concerned. 


II 

BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 


II 

BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

THERE  are  more  bait  casters  for  bass  today, 
ten  to  one,  than  there  were  twenty  years 
ago,  and  they  catch  more  bass.  They  do  this 
because  the  bass  is  a  very  wary  fish — not  because 
he  is  not.    If  he  sees  you,  he  is  gone,  but  he  cannot 
see  you  if  you  are  thirty,  forty,  or  fifty  yards  away 
and  if  you  place  before  him  something  which  looks 
like  a  challenge  to  fight  or  an  invitation  to  eat.  That 
is  the  purpose  of  the  modern  art  of  bait  casting. 

This  branch  of  sport,  like  many  others,  follows 
the  modern  tendency  in  its  development — that  is  to 
say,  it  is  efficient,  practical,  and  destructive.  The 
purpose  of  sport  today  apparently  is  to  get  the  last 
bird  from  the  cover,  the  last  fish  from  the  water, 
with  the  greatest  possible  certainty  and  celerity. 
Perhaps  it  may  not  be  held  good  form  to  mention 
this  tendency.  Perhaps  it  may  be  wiser  to  take 
things  as  they  are  and  not  seek  to  alter  them. 

Certainly  bait  casting  has  been  altered  more, 
whether  commendably  or  not,  in  the  last  generation, 

23 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

than  any  other  form  of  outdoor  sport.  Golf  comes 
down  to  us  practically  unchanged.  Canoeing,  rifle 
shooting,  snowshoeing — these  things  have  not  much 
changed.  Fly-fishing  retains  something  of  its  old 
ingredients.  But  bait  casting  today  is  only  in  name 
what  it  once  was. 

The  bait  caster  of  today  has  perhaps  a  hundred 
different  varieties  of  lures  from  which  he  may 
choose.  Customarily  his  casting  baits  are  armed 
with  a  series  of  gangs  or  treble  hooks  which  fisher- 
men buy  avidly  but  which  not  the  wildest  imagina- 
tion can  call  sportsmanlike. 

It  always  has  been  a  secret  known  to  all  who 
know  the  habits  of  the  black  bass,  that  bait  casting 
for  the  bass  is  most  efficient  in  rather  shallow  water. 
Bass  are  in  shallow  water  usually  in  the  early  part 
of  the  season.  They  feed  there  in  the  evenings  and 
lie  there  during  the  spawning  season.  Plug-casting 
for  black  bass  is  most  efficient  during  the  spawning 
season  or  just  before  it.  Later  in  the  summer  the 
bass  go  down  in  the  deeper  water  and  bait  casting 
then  is  not  equally  productive.  I  have  seen  bass  on 
the  spawning  beds  in  the  lakes  of  northern  Wiscon- 
sin as  late  as  the  middle  of  August,  although  in 
lower  latitudes  the  spawning  season  would  be  over 
perhaps  by  the  middle  of  June.  When  it  comes  to 
the  matter  of  ethics,  therefore,  we  need  not  rely 

24 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

absolutely  on  the  dates  of  the  game  laws  so  much  as 
on  the  individual  sense  of  sportsmanship.  A  wooden 
plug  with  eighteen  hooks  on  it,  cast  over  the  bed 
of  a  spawning  bass,  will  very  quickly  put  an  end  to 
the  lives  of  four  or  five  thousand  bass. 

None  the  less,  bait  casting  for  bass,  properly  prac- 
ticed, is  as  ethical  as  any  form  of  angling,  and  it  is 
perhaps  not  only  the  most  scientific  form  of  angling 
but  one  of  the  most  scientific  forms  of  sport — and 
one  of  the  most  difficult  as  well.  In  beauty  and  in 
art  it  does  not  compare  with  fly-fishing,  but  it  is  far 
more  difficult  to  learn  than  fly-fishing.  The  fly  rod 
is  a  beautiful  tool;  the  bait  rod  is  a  brutal  agent  of 
efficiency — but  before  it  becomes  brutally  efficient 
one  needs  a  certain  schooling  in  its  use. 

So  many  have  mastered  the  art  of  bait  casting, 
made  easy  of  late  years,  and  so  efficient  has  it  be- 
come in  spite  of  its  difficulty,  that  of  late  protests 
begin  to  be  heard  against  the  treble-ganged  hook 
just  as  we  hear  protests  against  the  automatic  or 
repeating  shotgun ;  and  there  is  talk  that  the  one  and 
the  other  eventually  will  have  legislation  passed 
against  them.  Sometime  there  will  be  modification 
in  the  use  of  these  highly  developed  appliances  of 
destruction — but  probably  not  until  we  have  ex- 
hausted our  fish  supply  yet  more.  We  do  not  be- 
lieve either  in  preparedness  for  war  or  prepared- 

25 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

ness  for  sport  in  this  country — we  never  take  meas- 
ures to  better  ourselves  until  very  late  in  the  game. 
We  figure  all  things  on  a  commercial  basis;  and  one 
day  we  will  pay  a  terrible,  a  disastrous  price  for 
that. 

Fish  culture  offers  the  greatest  encouragement  in 
the  world  to  the  bait  caster.  It  is  difficult  to  in- 
crease our  game  birds  and  game  animals,  but  it  is_ 
perfectly  simple  to  increase  our  game  fishes.  The 
commercial  fisheries  of  the  Great  Lakes  would  have 
been  exhausted  long  before  this  had  it  not  been 
that  the  state  hatcheries  continually  renew  the  stock 
of  food  fishes.  The  black  bass — the  usual  object  of 
the  bait  caster — is  one  of  the  fishes  which  can  be 
bred  artificially  in  large  numbers. 

It  is  almost  fair  to  say  that  bait  casting  in  twenty 
years  has  degenerated  from  a  sport  to  a  business. 
You  could  almost  measure  that  much  difference 
between  the  gear  used  then  and  now.  When  the 
middle-aged  sportsman  of  today  began  to  fish  for 
bass  he  used  a  rod  which  then  was  new-fashioned, 
a  recently  invented  bait-casting  rod  a  trifle  over 
eight  feet  in  length.  Today  there  are  bait  casters 
who  use  a  rod  not  more  than  four  feet  in  length ;  and 
five  feet,  five  and  a  half,  six,  six  and  a  half  feet  are 
about  the  limits  in  length  for  the  typical  short,  stiff, 
highly  efficient — and  highly  nonsportsmanlike — in- 

26 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

strument  which  is  called  a  rod  by  the  bait  caster 
of  today.  The  rod  has  changed,  and  the  reel,  and 
also  the  forms  of  the  lures  employed. 

Just  when  bait  casting  began  we  cannot  be  sure, 
but  the  weight  of  authority  ascribes  the  origin  of 
the  art  to  the  South,  more  especially  Kentucky, 
where  good  bass  streams  were  known  by  our  fore- 
fathers. These  gentlemen,  no  doubt,  used  rods  cut 
from  Southern  cane  brakes.  No  doubt  they  were 
long;  no  doubt,  also,  they  were  not  long  enough  to 
get  jthe  bait  out  far  enough  to  reach  a  shrewd  and 
wary  fish. 

It  was  an  old  watchmaker  of  Kentucky  by  the 
name  of  Snyder,  who,  in  the  early  part  of  the  last 
century,  invented  the  smooth-running1,  narrow,  long- 
barreled  reel  which  would  enable  him  to  place  a  bait 
at  a  considerable  distance  from  him  and  still  retain 
communication  with  the  aforesaid  bait.  Twenty 
years  ago  I  saw  one  of  these  old  Kentucky  reels 
which  was  then  said  to  be  more  than  fifty  years 
old.  I  have  seen  many  old  Kentucky  reels  which 
were  twenty,  thirty,  and  forty  years  of  age. 

There  were  several  watchmakers  of  Kentucky 
who  by  and  by  went  into  the  business  of  making 
fine  casting  reels — in  Lexington,  Frankfort  and 
other  cities  of  the  old  state.  We  have  never  had 
handsomer  specimens  of  the  reel-maker's  art  than 

27 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

these  early  reels.  They  could  not  be  made  as  they 
were,  by  hand,  delicately  and  beautifully  adjusted,  at 
a  low  price.  We  always  had  to  pay  twenty-five  to 
thirty  dollars  for  such  a  reel,  and  one  equally  good 
today  will  cost  thirty-five  to  forty  dollars. 

The  type  of  the  early  casting-reel  was  rather  uni- 
form. The  barrel  was  long  and  narrow.  The 
handle  might  be  single  crank  or  sometimes  double, 
or  balance-handled.  Such  a  reel  would  run  for 
thirty  seconds  or  more  when  the  handle  was  given 
a  strong  twirl.  The  spindle  was  always  of  steel  and 
the  box  of  brass,  for  the  old  reel-makers  knew  that 
steel  would  cut  steel  and  brass  would  cut  brass,  but 
that  steel  against  brass  would  wear  indefinitely. 
Sometimes  they  put  jewels  at  the  ends  of  the  spin- 
dles, but  these  did  not  really  add  much,  if  anything, 
to  the  ease  of  running  of  the  reel.  They  depended 
on  the  exquisite  fitting  of  the  plates,  the  exquisite 
high  temper  of  the  spindle,  and  the  perfect  work- 
manship which  went  into  the  reel. 

It  was  some  such  reel  as  this  and  a  rod  eight  feet 
or  more  in  length  which  made  the  equipment  of  the 
bait  caster  of  twenty  years  or  so  ago — at  which* 
time,  in  the  belief  of  some  of  us,  the  art  was  at  a 
higher  and  more  beautiful  stage  than  it  is  today. 
None  the  less  it  was  an  expensive  art,  for  few  peo- 
ple could  pay  those  prices  for  reels.  Therefore  the 

28 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

machine  work  of  American  shops  began  to  turn  out 
reels  at  fifteen  dollars,  ten  dollars,  eight  dollars, 
five  dollars.  They  were  not  so  good  as  the  old  hand- 
made reels,  but  they  were  perfectly  practical.  Today 
there  are  a  score  of  makes  of  casting-reels  on  the 
market,  any  one  of  which  will  deliver  the  goods — 
which  is  the  purpose  of  sport,  as  one  opines,  today. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  bait  casting  was  not  gen- 
erally practiced  and  was,  indeed,  little  known  in  the 
eastern  states.  Really  it  was  the  city  of  Chicago 
which  first  gave  a  big  boom  to  bait  casting  for  bass. 
In  the  early  developments  of  this  school  the  old- 
time  gentleman's  bass  casting  rod  began  to  shorten. 
It  got  down  to  about  seven  feet  in  length,  and  the 
reel  usually  attached  to  it  had  shrunk  in  price.  The 
light,  thin,  raw  silk  line  had  been  developed  until  it 
was  a  practical  proposition.  With  this  equipment, 
neat,  compact,  difficult  to  master  but  extremely  effi- 
cient when  mastered,  Chicago  bass  anglers  began  to 
go  south,  west,  east,  and  north — and  to  bring  back 
bass  when  they  came  home.  It  soon  was  discovered 
that  a  way  had  been  found  to  beat  the  game  of  this 
wiliest  of  game  fishes. 

The  average  western  bass  casting  rod — which 
sometimes  was  lancewood  and  sometimes  split  bam- 
boo— hung  around  seven  feet  from  1888  up  until 
about  1896.  Then  a  man  over  in  Kalamazoo,  Michi- 

29 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

gan,  concluded  to  alter  the  type  of  the  rod,  which 
heretofore  had  been  a  three-piece  rod.  He  took  an- 
ordinary  piece  of  Calcutta  cane  with  no  joint  in  it 
at  all,  and  fastened  it  in  a  grip  just  large  enough  to 
hold  a  reel-seat — he  made  the  latter  out  of  a  bicycle 
handle.  His  rod,  practically  a  single-piece  stick, 
was  a  trifle  over  six  feet  in  length.  It  was  simply 
a  stick  for  propelling  something — just  as  a  boy 
throws  a  crabapple  from  a  short  bough.  The  newest 
idea  about  it  was  that  of  the  guides.  The  rod  had 
but  two  guides,  two  and  a  fourth  inches  and  one 
and  seven-eighths  inches  respectively,  with  a  tip 
guide  which  measured  one-half  inch  in  diameter. 
It  was  found  that  by  the  use  of  these  large  guides 
the  line  ran  very  freely.  There  was  not  a  great  deal 
of  style  about  this  Kalamazoo  rod,  but  it  "got 
there"  just  the  same. 

This  rod  was  made  in  the  fall  of  1896,  and  dur- 
ing that  winter  the  maker  got  out  another  model 
consisting  of  a  single  joint  of  lancewood  four  feet 
in  length,  with  a  twelve-inch  handle.  This  may  be 
called  the  father  of  the  average  bait-casting  rod  of 
today,  which  quite  commonly  consists  of  a  single 
joint  and  a  butt  piece.  The  guides  on  this  later  rod 
were  one  and  a  half  inches  and  one  and  a  fourth 
inches  respectively,  in  diameter,  and  the  top  guide 
three-fourths  of  an  inch.  The  principle  of  large 

30 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

guides  is  therefore  relatively  modern.  It  was  only 
a  step  to  the  use  of  large  diameter  agate  guides,  pol- 
ished and  rounded,  which  are  the  last  word  in  cast- 
ing gear.  This  short  rod  has  been  made  in  differ- 
ent materials  since  then — steel,  lancewood,  betha- 
bera,  and  split  bamboo. 

For  one  of  these  short  casting  rods,  say  six  and 
one-half  feet  and  six  and  one-quarter  ounces,  you 
will  have  to  pay  thirty-three  dollars  if  you  get  your 
rod  made  by  a  top-notch  maker.  In  steel  you  can  go 
down  to  four,  five,  or  six  dollars.  In  split  bamboo 
— good  enough  to  kill  bass — you  can  get  a  bass 
casting  rod  as  low  as  one  dollar.  Certainly  there  is 
range  sufficient  in  price.  Without  attempting  to 
counsel  any  man  what  he  should  spend  for  his 
sporting  equipment,  it  is  perhaps  fair  to  say  that  the 
more  he  can  pay  for  his  bait-casting  outfit,  the  better 
time  he  will  have  and  the  longer  the  outfit  will  last 
him.  At  its  top  development  a  good  bass  casting 
outfit  which  can  be  carried  between  two  fingers  and 
in  one  pocket  will  run  something  over  a  hundred- 
dollar  bill.  At  one-tenth  of  that  cost  the  plain  citi- 
zen can  go  out  and  catch  bass. 

The  hook,  finger-grasp,  or  trigger  which  one 
sometimes  sees  adjusted  to  the  butt  of  one  of  these 
short  casting  rods  was  the  invention  of  a  friend 
who  saw  the  original  Kalamazoo  rod  in  work.  This 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

finger-hold  or  trigger  is  made  by  different  concerns, 
and  one  patented  form  is  detachable  from  the  rod. 
Take  one  of  these  short,  stiff,  casting  machines,  with 
little  action  except  just  at  the  tip,  with  its  finger 
trigger  and  its  big  steel  or  agate  guides,  and  at  first 
sight  one  would  not  think  it  was  a  descendant  of  the 
old-time  bass  casting  rod  of  eight  feet  or  better — 
which  was  pliable,  flexible,  with  action  from  the 
butt  joint  to  the  tip.  The  purpose  of  the  old-time 
longer  bass  rod  was  to  handle  a  bait  delicately  and 
to  play  a  fish  with  some  enjoyment.  The  purpose 
of  the  short  modern  casting  rod  is  to  slam  a  bait 
as  far  as  possible  and  to  jerk  a  bass  out  of  the  lily 
pads  as  quickly  as  possible.  There  is  no  law  and  no 
obligation  upon  any  one  to  join  either  of  these  two 
schools  of  bait  casting,  save  as  his  own  fancy  and 
conviction  shall  dictate. 

One  secret  of  the  fascination  of  bait  casting  al- 
ways has  been  its  difficulty  as  matched  against  its 
desirability.  One  knows  there  is  a  bass  out  there 
thirty  or  forty  yards,  and  one  keeps  on  trying  to  get 
at  him  until  finally  the  knack  is  learned.  Meantime 
the  beginner  has  become  acquainted  with  the  peculi- 
arity of  the  casting  reel  which  is  known  as  back- 
lashing — the  overrunning  of  the  line  when  the  reel 
is  not  thumbed  properly  while  the  bait  is  pulling 
the  line  off  the  reel.  In  this  way  the  line  piles  up 

32 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

in  a  series  of  knots  and  snarls  which  may  run  clear 
to  the  spindle  and  which  may  keep  one,  half  an  hour 
or  so  in  getting  the  line  free.  Of  course,  if  one 
has  to  stop  and  pick  out  a  tangle  in  the  line  before 
he  begins  to  reel  in  his  bait,  much  of  the  luring 
quality  of  his  cast  is  gone — the  bass  has  had  time 
enough  to  learn  all  about  the  lure  which  is  offered 
him.  The  bait  caster,  therefore,  must  gently  thumb 
his  reel  so  that  the  spool  will  be  smooth  when  his 
bait  lands.  Then  he  can  give  it  the  little  twitch  in 
imitation  of  life,  and  begin  steadily  to  reel  it  in,  to 
the  excitement  of  the  fish  which  sees  it. 

All  bait-casting  reels  are  made  of  quadruple  gear 
so  that  the  line  may  be  recovered  very  rapidly.  As 
this  means  gain-gearing  in  the  wheels,  it  must  be 
seen  that  the  workmanship  needs  to  be  very  fine. 
It  is  so  fine  that  ordinarily  the  reel  is  much  better 
than  the  user  of  it.  One  does  not  learn  to  cast  with 
a  good  reel  and  to  keep  it  free  of  snarls  all  the  time 
in  his  first  season — nay,  nor  in  his  second. 

Seeing  that  this  back-lash  drawback  was  an  in- 
jury to  trade,  many  of  our  tackle-makers  set  about 
freeing  the  angler  of  the  nuisance.  There  have 
been  many  inventions  for  application  to  casting  reels 
— anti-back-lash  appliances,  level-spooling  reels, 
self-winders,  etc.,  the  intention  of  each  of  which  is 
to  keep  just  strain  enough  on  the  line  so  that  it  will 

33 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

not  overrun  but  will  still  pay  out  freely  enough  to 
deliver  the  bait  at  a  distance  from  the  reel.  Of 
course,  every  one  of  these  appliances  takes  off  a  lit- 
tle from  the  ultimate  capacity  of  the  reel  as  to  dis- 
tance and  delicacy.  All  the  records  have  been  made 
without  any  such  appliances  attached  to  the  reel. 

None  the  less  the  improved  casting-reel  seems 
to  be  here  to  stay,  as  well  as  the  improved  casting 
rod.  You  can  even  find  good  reels  made  with  a  free 
spindle — that  is  to  say,  one  which  does  not  revolve 
its  gear  but  only  its  spindle  when  you  cast  out  the 
line,  but  which  engages  the  gears  when  you  begin 
to  wind  in.  Whether  or  not  all  these  things  are 
according  to  Hoyle,  or  even  in  accord  with  the  ul- 
timate ethics  of  the  art,  we  need  not  inquire.  No 
doubt  if  appliances  could  be  made  to  alter  the  ancient 
tools  of  the  game  of  golf,  men  would  not  be  want- 
ing who  would  use  them.  This  is  the  practical  day 
and  age  of  the  world. 

When  it  comes  to  catching  fish,  thirty,  forty,  or 
fifty  feet  will  kill  bass,  but  thirty,  forty,  or  fifty 
yards  will  kill  more  bass  if  one  can  cast  a  straight 
line'and  be  in  control  of  his  bait  all  the  time.  Per- 
haps the  early  users  of  the  Kentucky  reel  found  a 
hundred  feet  far  enough  to  do  the  work.  In  the 
later  days  of  competitive  angling,  club  tournaments, 
casting  for  medals,  and  the  like,  the  art  of  bait 

34 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

casting  has  been  developed  to  a  wonderful  degree. 
In  the  fall  of  1914,  in  an  angling  tournament,  the 
regulation  half-ounce  weight  was  cast  two  hundred 
and  twenty-two  feet  one  inch,  this  being  an  average 
of  five  different  casts.  Such  work  as  this  would 
have  been  deemed  impossible  ten  years  ago.  It  will 
no  doubt  be  some  time  before  you  can  do  that,  per- 
haps some  time  before  that  angler  can  do  it  again. 
That  is  almost  seventy-five  yards — rather  farther 
than  you  can  kill  a  duck  with  a  shotgun. 

In  accuracy  also  the  records  are  wonderful.  In 
tournament  casting  with  the  quarter-ounce  weight, 
two  casts  each  at  the  distance  of  sixty,  sixty-five, 
seventy,  seventy-five,  and  eighty  feet,  another  angler 
had  an  average  of  ninety-nine  and  six-tenths  per  cent 
— almost  perfect  casting.  The  standard  event  in 
these  casting  tournaments  is  the  accuracy  event  with 
the  half -ounce  weight — a  half-ounce  more  nearly  ap- 
proximating the  weight  of  the  average  fishing  bait 
than  the  delicate  quarter-ounce  weight.  In  this 
event  one  angler  scored  ninety-nine  and  six-tenths 
per  cent — also  practically  perfect  casting.  One  may 
tie  this  record  but  cannot  beat  it  very  far. 

In  the  earlier  tournaments  a  fifty-yard  cast  with 
the  half-ounce  bait  was  thought  wonderful.  When 
it  went  up  to  one  hundred  and  ninety-four  feet 
eight  inches,  in  1906,  everyone  thought  the  limit  had 

35 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

been  attained.  But  last  fall  a  gentleman  cast  the 
light  quarter-ounce  weight  one  hundred  seventy- 
seven  feet  five  inches — a  far  more  difficult  perform- 
ance than  the  former.  This  sort  of  work  indicates 
that  the  lightest  minnow  or  spoon  can  be  used  with 
certainty.  It  is  far  more  difficult  to  handle  these 
delicate  weights  than  it  is  to  slam  away  with  the 
big  wooden  plug  or  with  the  average-sized  fishing 
frog. 

In  the  old  style  of  bait  casting  with  the  eight- 
foot  rod  the  angler  stood  with  the  tip  of  the  rod 
dropped  a  little  and  held  a  trifle  back.  He  cast  with 
an  upward  and  forward  sweep  of  the  rod,  turning 
his  wrist  over  so  that  at  the  close  of  the  cast  the1 
handle  of  the  reel  was  upright,  the  barrel  of  the  reel 
having  been  thumbed  meantime  so  that  the  line 
would  not  overrun.  This  is  a  very  pretty  and  grace- 
ful style  of  casting  and  to  a  certain  extent  it  can  be 
practiced  in  boat  fishing  as  well.  It  is  a  fine  style 
for  light  minnow  or  frog  bait  with  the  flexible  rod 
and  a  perfect  reel. 

The  tournament  records,  however,  are  not  made 
in  this  way.  They  are  all  done  by  the  overhead 
cast,  which  is  more  accurate  and  which  has  served  in 
getting  the  greatest  distance.  In  overhead  casting 
the  short  rod  is  quite  essential.  If  you  will  notice 
an  expert  at  this  work  you  will  see  that  he  puts 

36 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

the  impact  of  his  first  casting  movement  against  the 
side  of  his  forefinger — sometimes  there  will  be 
finger  holds  cut  in  the  butt  of  the  rod.  Then  as  the 
rod  comes  forward,  the  hand  turns  so  that  the 
plates  of  the  reel,  lying  horizontally,  run  most  easily. 

As  it  takes  some  time  for  a  bait  to  run  out  fifty, 
sixty,  or  seventy  yards  of  line,  it  is  to  be  seen  that 
the  movement  of  the  casting  rod  is  at  first  sharp  and 
accelerating,  then  slow,  then  slower  and  slower 
until  the  end  of  the  cast.  Naturally  the  line  will 
pull  out  through  the  guides  most  easily  when  the 
axis  of  the  line  and  the  axis  of  the  guides  coincide. 
To  learn  how  to  do  this  cast  and  all  the  time  gently 
thumb  that  steadily  lessening  barrel  of  the  reel  is 
something  not  mastered  in  a  day.  It  is  really  a  very 
pretty  art.  There  are  a  great  many  tournament 
casters  who  learned  on  a  park  lagoon  or  even  on  a 
park  lawn;  very  likely  many  of  these  would  get 
greater  distance  and  accuracy  than  many  an  old- 
time  bass  angler. 

It  is  easily  to  be  seen  that  the  bass  caster's  outfit 
may  be  expensive  and  is  always  interesting.  It  de- 
serves good  care  and,  in  fact,  must  have  good  care 
if  it  is  to  be  efficient.  The  rod,  no  matter  whether 
it  is  a  thirty-five-dollar  split  bamboo  of  eight  feet 
or  a  three-dollar  rod  of  four  and  one-half  feet, 
should  be  well  cared  for — wiped  dry  after  fishing, 

37 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

straightened  out  after  use,  and  hung  up  by  the  tip 
during  the  winter  months.  This  latter  is  a  trick 
which  adds  years  to  any  rod's  life  and  tons  to  its 
energy. 

The  bait  caster's  line  is  rather  a  delicate  affair. 
It  is  never  of  enameled  silk,  of  course,  and  equally 
of  course  it  is  never  of  linen.  It  will  not  do  for  a 
trolling  line  because  it  will  kink.  It  is  made  of  raw 
silk,  hard-braided.  In  tournament  work  it  is  so 
small  that  its  breaking  strain  may  be  as  low  as  five 
pounds.  What  is  called  heavy  bass  size  runs  as  high 
as  seventeen  pounds  breaking  strain.  The  average 
line  for  good  bass  fishing  will  be  around  ten  or 
twelve  pounds  breaking  strain.  That  leaves  it  rather 
thin,  and  as  it  is  not  waterproof  it  will  rot  very 
quickly  unless  one  is  careful  to  dry  it  whenever 
possible. 

The  line  should  never  be  left  on  the  reel  over 
night.  It  once  took  a  pretty  good  casting  line  to 
stand  even  two  or  three  days'  fishing,  although  these 
lines  are  made  much  better  now  than  they  were 
twenty  years  ago.  The  greatest  wear  on  a  line — 
and  the  continuous  passing  through  the  guides 
exacts  a  certain  amount  of  wear  no  matter  how  per- 
fect everything  is — will  be  on  that  portion  close  to 
the  hook.  Here  is  where  the  strain  of  casting  is  most 
felt.  Therefore,  when  reeling  in  your  fish,  remem- 

38 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

ber  that  as  your  line  grows  shorter  it  grows  much 
weaker.  Do  not  crowd  your  bass  if  you  have  any 
doubt  about  your  line.  Give  him  time  and  reach  for 
him  as  far  as  you  can  with  your  net.  It  is  the  last  five 
or  six  feet  of  your  line  which  is  most  apt  to  break. 
The  bait  caster's  reel  is  another  thing  which  must 
receive  good  care.  Today  there  are  many  reels 
made  which  can  be  taken  apart  readily  and  yet 
others  which  can  readily  be  oiled.  Every  man  to 
his  liking  in  these  matters.  There  are  owners  of 
revolvers  and  rifles  who  boast  to  their  friends  how 
easily  they  can  take  these  arms  apart;  yet  there 
are  others  of  an  older  school  who  ask  "Why  should 
a  rifle  or  a  revolver  ever  be  taken  apart?"  Cer- 
tainly the  old-time  high-class  Kentucky  reel  was 
not  meant  to  be  taken  apart  very  often.  If  perhaps 
you  have  jammed  such  a  reel  by  overheating  it 
through  casting  too  heavy  a  frog  for  too  long  a 
time,  you  may  have  taken  it  apart  and  then  found 
you  could  not  put  it  together  again  so  that  it  ran 
as  handsomely  as  it  did  when  you  first  bought  it — 
and  this  even  though  you  oiled  it  abundantly.  The 
trouble  was  that  you  oiled  it  too  much.  One  of 
these  beautiful  examples  of  the  reel-maker's  art  is 
fitted  so  closely  that  even  the  slightest  coating  of 
oil  will  impede  the  free  running  of  its  plates.  Take 
your  reel,  therefore,  if  you  feel  you  must  dismount 

39 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

it,  and  clean  it  thoroughly  with  a  piece  of  soft 
matchwood.  Wipe  it  as  clean  as  you  can.  Use 
the  thinnest  of  oil  and  then  wipe  the  oil  off.  When 
you  put  the  reel  together  be  careful  to  screw  down 
with  equal  firmness  all  of  the  screws  in  the  end 
plates.  If  one  screw  is  tighter  than  the  others, 
the  plate  will  bind  and  the  reel  will  not  run  free. 

We  are  talking  now  of  a  high-grade,  delicately 
adjusted  reel.  You  may  get  many  of  more  modern 
makes,  not  so  delicately  adjusted,  which  will  give 
you  less  trouble  perhaps — reels  which  you  can  take 
apart,  rub  down  with  a  rag,  oil  abundantly,  and 
put  together  again  without  any  trouble.  Take  your 
choice  as  to  these.  If  you  are  a  good  angler  and 
true,  in  time  you  will  have  many  reels,  many  rods — 
and  many  ideas;  for  this  angling,  whether  with  fly 
rod  or  bait  rod,  is  a  many-sided  matter,  and  he  who 
would  lay  down  his  own  dictum  for  the  following 
of  others  lacks  wisdom  in  the  first  part  and  will 
always  lack  following  in  the  second. 

The  modern  tackle  store  usually  is  equipped  with 
bait  casting  tackle  according  to  the  modern  ideas — 
short  rods,  large  guides,  cheap  reels,  fool-proof 
appliances  against  back-lashing,  good  lines,  and  an 
unending  multiplicity  of  baits,  each  one  of  which 
is  guaranteed  to  beat  all  others  in  its  alluring  quality. 
It  is  not  true  that  any  of  these  painted  plugs  will 

40 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

kill  bass  at  all  times.  Almost  any  one  of  them  will 
kill  some  bass  sometimes,  for  the  bass  is  an  irri- 
table, truculent  fish  and,  at  least  at  certain  seasons 
of  the  year,  will  run  at  almost  anything  you  throw 
near  him.  I,  personally,  do  not  believe  in  fishing 
with  gang  hooks  of  any  sort.  One  hook  is  enough 
for  the  bass  caster  of  moderate  tastes,  or  at  most 
two  hooks  if  one  is  fishing  with  live  bait;  sometimes 
a  lip  hook  for  a  frog  and  another  one  lower  down 
to  catch  the  short  striking  fish  will  save  an  angler's 
patience.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  never  been  very 
keen  for  weedless  hooks,  but  take  my  own  chance 
of  fouling  in  the  weeds — and  allow  the  bass  to  have 
his  chance.  There  are,  however,  many  weedless 
hooks  calculated  to  pass  freely  over  lily  pads  and 
other  cover  customarily  sought  by  bass.  In  fact, 
you  can  invest  quite  a  sum  of  money  in  any  good 
tackle  shop  in  buying  just  a  few  of  the  things  which 
will  be  recommended  to  you  as  the  latest  idea  in 
bass  casting. 

You  will  find  a  small  spoon  hook  with  a  single 
hook  and  a  piece  of  split  pork  rind,  a  couple  of 
inches  long,  about  as  apt  to  start  something  as 
almost  any  of  the  other  baits.  There  are  double 
and  treble-blade  spoons,  wide  spoons,  narrow 
spoons,  revolving  spoons,  beaded  spoons,  flanges 
which  turn  around  inside  the  body  of  a  wooden 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

minnow,  glass  cylinders  with  live  minnows  inside 
them  and  hooks  outside  them,  plugs,  bugs,  nipples, 
bulbs,  feathers,  glass,  tinsel: — all  these  things  you 
can  buy  if  you  like,  and  probably  you  will  like  if 
you  see  them  on  the  counter. 

The  art  of  bait  casting  originally  had  to  do  with 
the  use  of  live  bait,  and  the  long  rod  of  old  gave 
a  gentle  delivery  of  a  live  bait.  It  is  a  cruel  thing 
to  cast  a  live  frog,  and  the  ordinary  bait  caster's 
outfit — certain  dozens  of  live  frogs  squatting  in  a 
basket  awaiting  their  turn  at  impalement  and  fling- 
ing half  a  hundred  yards  through  the  air,  only  to 
alight  in  a  life-extinguishing  thump  on  the  water — 
that  sort  of  thing  does  not  stand  analysis,  although 
that  sort  of  thing  is  precisely  what  bait  casting  is 
in  its  most  usual  phase.  Therefore,  kill  your  frog 
— rap  his  head  over  the  side  of  the  boat  before  you 
use  him,  since  he  must  die.  Depend  for  the  rest 
upon  your  skill  in  delivering  the  dead  frog  and  re- 
trieving him  so  that  he  shall  look  alive. 

When  a  bass  strikes  a  frog  or  a  minnow  of  any 
size,  almost  invariably  he  will  do  so  from  the  side. 
I  have  seen  a  bass  hold  a  frog,  his  head  and  legs 
sticking  out  the  sides  of  his  mouth,  for  what  seemed 
to  be  two  or  three  minutes,  just  lying  still  and  not 
making  a  move !  A  bass  will  grasp  a  frog  thus  and 
move  off  several  yards,  usually,  before  he  turns  the 

42 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

frog  and  swallows  it.  Then  he  will  start  off  at  a 
faster  gait.  It  is  customary  to  wait  for  the  second 
run  of  the  bass,  and  it  is  thought  better  to  wait  too 
long  rather  than  two  short  a  time  before  striking. 

The  bass  will  rush  quite  a  distance  to  seize  a  bait, 
and  then  return  towards  his  lying  ground,  where 
always  he  will  swallow  the  bait  Sometimes  he 
will  start  down  into  deep  water  before  he  swallows 
it.  The  angler  with  live  bait  who  has  but  a  single 
hook  takes  his  chances  as  to  the  time  to  strike.  If 
he  waits  too  long  with  a  dead  frog,  perhaps  the 
bass  may  reject  it.  If  he  strikes  too  soon,  even 
with  a  live  frog,  perhaps  he  may  pull  the  bait  out 
of  the  bass'  mouth.  The  man  with  the  wooden 
minnow  and  many  gangs  does  not  miss  many  bass — 
it  is  impossible  for  the  fish  to  strike  the  lure  with- 
out getting  fastened  by  several  hooks.  Thus  fast- 
ened, he  is  not  apt  to  fight  very  long  or  very  well, 
even  if  he  could  against  the  stiff,  short,  and  merci- 
less rod  which  yanks  him  out. 

Among  all  these  different  phases  of  the  art  you 
will,  very  naturally,  pick  out  the  one  which  pleases 
you  best.  The  art  of  bait  casting  can  be  made  a 
very  beautiful  and  sportsmanlike  one,  and  it  can 
be  made  a  very  simple  and  efficient  one.  I  am  very 
clear  in  my  own  mind  as  to  which  I  prefer.  You 
take  your  choice — and  always  you  pay  your  money. 

43 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

It  takes  two  men  to  go  bass  fishing,  one  to  row  the 
boat  and  one  to  do  the  casting.  It  is  rather  difficult 
to  handle  the  boat  and  cast  at  the  same  time.  In 
the  best  form  of  practice  the  caster  should  lie  thirty 
or  forty  yards  outside  the  edge  of  the  rushes  whose 
pockets  he  is  intending  to  work.  If  he  is  alone  in 
his  boat  he  may  drift  in  too  close,  and  so  frighten 
the  fish  which  he  is  approaching.  The  boat  should 
advance  slowly,  and  each  little  inlet  among  the 
rushes  should  be  tapped  with  the  bait.  The  best 
part  of  the  sport  is  the  savage  rush  with  which  the 
bass  strikes  the  lure  on  the  surface.  Sometimes  he 
will  cast  the  white  water  far  on  either  side  of  him 
as  he  seizes  what  he  takes  to  be  his  prey.  There 
are  underwater  lures,  and  in  live  bait  fishing  one 
often  has  the  bass  strike  below  the  surface;  but 
the  surface  work  is  the  cream  of  bait  casting,  be- 
cause thus  one  sees  the  strike  of  the  quarry  itself. 

Most  bait  casting  is  done  on  lakes,  and  there  are 
thousands  of  lakes  in  America  which  still  offer 
sport  and  may  do  so  forever  if  we  practice  any 
moderation  and  if  we  follow  up  fish  culture  as  it 
should  be  followed.  Sometimes,  however,  one 
wishes  to  cast  for  bass  while  floating  down  stream 
in  a  boat.  Not  long  ago  I  saw  a  very  good  little 
wrinkle  mentioned  in  a  sportsman's  paper.  The 
writer  described  the  use  of  a  common  garden  rake 

44 


BAIT  CASTING  FOR  BASS 

as  a  boat  anchor  while  floating  down  stream.  The 
boat  handler  simply  sits  astern  with  the  rake  over- 
board. It  is  easy  to  guide  the  boat  by  pressure  on 
this  side  or  that,  and  easy  to  anchor  it  by  pushing 
the  rake  into  the  mud  or  gravel  when  one  comes 
to  the  place  to  stop.  This  is  a  tip  worth  remember- 
ing, and  quite  novel,  as  far  as  I  know. 

When  you  fish  for  bass  in  the  summertime  it  is 
best,  if  possible,  always  to  have  a  cake  of  ice 
wrapped  up  in  a  burlap  sack  and  put  in  a  box  which 
will  not  leak.  When  you  catch  a  bass  kill  him  by 
putting  the  blade  of  a  knife  in  at  the  back  of  the 
neck,  and  then  put  him  at  once  on  the  ice  and  keep 
him  cold  until  used.  If  the  water  is  muddy  or 
weedy  it  is  better  to  clean  the  fish  at  once  and  then 
put  it  on  the  ice.  The  muddy  taste  is  common 
among  black  bass  taken  from  weedy  waters  in  the 
summertime.  It  becomes  much  worse  if  the  bass 
is  allowed  to  lie  undressed,  or  if  it  is  allowed  to 
get  too  warm.  Sometimes  skinning  the  fish  instead 
of  scaling  it  is  better. 

There  is  no  fish  which  varies  much  more  in 
quality  on  the  table  than  the  black  bass.  It  all 
depends  on  the  temperature  and  condition  of  the 
water  in  which  it  is  taken.  The  flesh  of  the  bass 
is  high  in  proteids,  much  higher  than  that  of  most 
of  the  sea  fishes,  so  that  it  is  a  fine  food  fish. 

45 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

There  would  seem  to  be  little  use  in  even  referring 
to  the  old  controversy  about  the  game  qualities  of 
the  large-mouthed  bass  and  the  small-mouthed  bass. 
That  depends  on  the  temperature  and  rapidity  of  the 
waters  in  which  they  are  taken.  Either  is  a  good 
fish.  The  large-mouthed  black  bass  of  the  lakes  is, 
however,  ordinarily  the  more  obliging  of  the  two 
species,  that  is  to  say,  more  willing  to  absorb  any 
sort  of  pointed  contrivance  which  is  slammed  in 
his  vicinity.  After  an  experience  of  many  years 
with  this  game  fish  I  am  unable  to  say  whether  he 
is  the  most  courageous  fish  in  the  world  or  the  big- 
gest fool  of  all  the  fishes.  In  any  case,  he  has 
offered  sport  for  many  generations  of  American 
anglers  and  will  offer  it  for  many  and  many  a  gener- 
ation yet  to  come.  There  are  scores  of  other  ways 
of  taking  him,  but  the  most  sportsmanlike  is  with 
the  old  rod  and  reel;  the  most  efficient  is  with  the 
new  rod  and  reel. 


Ill 

ANGLING  EXTRAORDINARYi 

WITHOUT  sodium  chloride  life  would  not 
amount  to  much.  There  would  be  no 
sort  of  cooking  which  at  any  price  would 
ever  get  an  encore.  There  would  be  no  packing  or 
canning  industries — indeed  not  very  much  com- 
merce of  any  sort.  The  codfish  would  pass  away; 
the  mackerel  would  no  longer  delight  the  palates  of 
those  who  dwell  far  from  the  stern  and  rock-bound 
coast.  Without  salt  the  waste  of  the  world  would 
be  so  enormously  increased  that  the  world  could  not 
carry  its  own  burdens.  Salt  is  a  part  of  us  as  well 
as  a  part  of  the  things  that  we  use.  From  deer  to 
diva,  all  the  world  needs  salt.  Doctors  use  it  to 
infuse  life  into  a  waning  circulatory  system.  In- 
deed, science  figures  out  nowadays  that  it  can  come 
near  producing  life  itself  by  means  of  certain  saline 
reactions. 

All  of  which  is  merely  by  way  of  saying  that  salt 
seems  to  have  some  strange  revivifying  effect  on 
animal  life.  Give  a  horse  a  taste  of  rock  salt  and 

49 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

it  becomes  friskier.  Cattle  require  sah  occasionally. 
Deer  and  mountain-sheep  will  go  any  distance  to  a 
salt-lick.  Even  the  cold-blooded  and  somewhat  un- 
intellectual  fish  family  seems  to  have  sense  enough 
to  go  once  in  a  while  to  the  sea  when  it  has  the 
chance.  The  strongest,  gamest,  handsomest,  and 
most  toothsome  of  all  our  fishes  are  those  which 
make  the  journey  to  the  sea.  Not  without  reason 
is  the  salmon  called  the  king  of  all  fishes. 

There  are  salmon  which  never  get  to  the  sea  but 
which  still  remain  good  examples  of  the  salmon 
family — the  ouananiche,  or  land-locked  salmon  of 
certain  eastern  lakes,  is  such  a  salmon — a  good  fish, 
and  active,  but  one  which  does  not  attain  to  a  quar- 
ter of  the  weight  of  members  of  the  family  which 
make  the  pilgrimage  to  the  salt  water. 

A  salmon  somewhat  similar  to  the  land-locked 
salmon  of  the  east  is  the  steelhead  of  certain  western 
rivers;  but  the  steelhead,  although  he  can  live  the 
year  round  in  fresh  water,  is  at  his  best  when,  like 
the  salmon,  he  can  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  ocean 
and  back  again  to  the  fresh-water  rivers.  There 
is  no  gamer  fish  that  swims  than  this  same  ham- 
mered-down,  compact  salmon.  No  matter  what  the 
scientists  call  him,  he  is  a  small  and  lusty  trout  of 
bold  fresh  water  rivers,  gone  to  sea  and  returned 
the  better  and  stronger  for  it. 

50 


ANGLING  EXTRAORDINARY 

The  greatest  of  all  steelhead  rivers  is  the  Rogue 
River  of  Oregon.  The  fish  there  run  up  to  ten  or 
twelve  pounds  at  times  and  specimens  of  half  that 
weight  are  by  no  means  unusual.  The  Rogue  River 
itself  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  rivers  in  all  the 
world  and  passes  through  a  mountain  valley  which 
is  fairly  to  be  called  one  of  the  beauty  spots  of  the 
earth's  surface.  The  river  is  a  bold,  rushing  torrent, 
alternating  rapids  and  pools — indeed  an  ideal  sal- 
mon river.  It  has  salmon  also — the  silver  salmon 
of  the  sea,  running  in  weight  up  to  forty,  fifty,  even 
sixty  pounds.  If  these  fish  would  take  the  fly — 
if  by  any  process  of  human  ingenuity  they  could 
be  coaxed  to  learn  that  habit — at  once  Oregon  would 
spring  into  a  fame  which  would  reach  to  all  corners 
of  the  world.  There  is  not  a  more  perfect  salmon 
river  out  of  doors  than  the  Rogue  River,  and  bar- 
ring the  king  salmon  himself,  the  steelhead  is  the 
one  fish  which  ought  to  and  which  does  occupy 
these  waters. 

Time  was  when  the  Rogue  River  produced  steel- 
heads  in  any  quantity  desired.  Today  there  are  still 
enough  of  the  fish  to  offer  fairly  successful  angling. 
There  are  good  seasons  and  bad  seasons,  depending 
on  the  status  of  net  fishing  at  the  mouth  of  the 
river.  Some  of  the  Oregon  towns  think  that  all 
netting  ought  to  be  stopped  so  that  the  steelhead 

Si 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

might  make  their  way  in  numbers  to  the  upper 
waters  of  the  Rogue  River.  Other  towns,  more  de- 
pendent upon  the  commercial  fisheries,  are  in  favor 
of  leaving  the  nets  at  the  mouth  of  the  river.  Some- 
times there  is  a  compromise  measure  on  the  statute 
books,  under  which  commercial  fishermen  are  al- 
lowed to  net  salmon  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  but 
are  obliged  to  return  to  the  water  all  the  steelheads 
taken  in  the  nets.  It  is  easily  predicable  what  the 
result  of  this  sort  of  law  would  be,  and  indeed  is — 
the  steelheads  do  not  get  returned  to  the  ocean  but 
find  their  way  into  tin  cans  with  other  salmon. 

These  things  being  as  they  are,  it  is  without  ques- 
tion true  to  say  that  the  supply  of  steelhead  salmon 
in  the  Rogue  River  is  far  less  now  than  was  once 
the  case.  The  usual  American  custom  is  to  use  the 
gifts  of  Nature  unsparingly.  To  an  unprejudiced 
observer  this  does  not  seem  the  best  form  of  business 
practice.  The  Rogue  River,  full  of  steelhead,  in 
these  days  of  increasing  travel  and  decreasing  sport, 
very  soon  would  be  one  of  the  best  publicity  agents 
and  one  of  the  best  revenue  producers  which  Oregon 
could  have. 

As  it  was  and  as  it  is,  however,  the  steelhead  ang- 
ling on  the  Rogue  River  is  one  of  the  most  exciting 
forms  of  angling  practiced  in  any  land — indeed  is 
one  of  the  most  difficult  and  dangerous.  It  far  and 

52 


ANGLING  EXTRAORDINARY 

away  surpasses  any  salmon  angling  in  all  the  quali- 
ties of  skill  and  daring  required  for  success — is 
indeed  something  unique  in  its  own  way.  It  has 
been  the  fortune  of  the  writer  to  fight  a  forty-pound 
salmon  on  the  Grand  Cascepedia  of  Quebec,  and 
surely  in  dignity  and  splendor  there  is  no  sport 
with  the  rod  entitled  to  the  palm  over  that  form 
of  salmon  angling.  None  the  less,  it  is  free  of 
risk  and  is  pursued  under  conditions  of  ease  and 
comfort  as  well  as  of  safety.  The  excitement  lies 
in  the  combat  between  the  man  and  the  fish. 

In  this  Rogue  River  angling  for  steelhead,  the 
case  is  quite  otherwise.  The  combat  between  man 
and  fish  is  there,  but  also  the  combat  between  man 
and  Nature — Nature  bent  upon  destruction,  Nature 
riotous,  dangerous  and  uncontrolled.  For  the  angler 
seeking  steelheads  must  take  his  life  in  his  hands 
when  he  wades  into  that  mountain  torrent  in  pur- 
suit of  his  sport.  There  are  a  few  places  on  the 
river  where  a  boat  can  be  used,  but  boat  fishing 
for  steelhead  is  not  de  rigueur,  and  indeed  is  prac- 
tically unknown.  It  is  wading  angling  raised  to  the 
nth  degree. 

I  think  that  of  all  the  angling  in  the  world  this 
is  of  the  highest  class  in  those  qualities  requiring 
courage  and  skill  alike — the  acme  of  all  angling  with 
the  fly;  and  this  statement  applies  not  only  to  ang- 

53 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

ling  on  this  continent,  but  to  that  in  any  quarter  of 
the  world.  Push  it  just  beyond  its  natural  status 
of  risk  and  it  is  no  longer  part  sport  but  all  risk. 

The  Rogue  River  wader  for  steelhead  takes  his 
life  in  his  hands  no  matter  how  good  a  swimmer 
he  is.  The  water  runs  from  two  to  twenty  feet  in 
depth ;  in  many  places  the  river  is  more  than  a  hun- 
dred yards  wide ;  while  the  momentum  of  the  down- 
coming  flood  is  something  enormous.  Any  man 
who  knows  the  downthrust  of  even  a  small  rapid 
stream  will  know  how  to  estimate  the  strength 
of  this  tremendous  river. 

Moreover,  the  footing  is  not  always  very  secure. 
This  is  lava  country  and  there  are  great  rifts  of  lava 
rock  here  and  there,  lying  like  flat  dams  almost 
entirely  across  the  course  of  the  river.  These  may 
alternate  with  what  the  local  men  call  "smooth 
rock,"  which  offers  at  best  only  slippery,  slithery 
footing  for  the  wader.  Now  and  again  there  are 
slant  faults  or  upthrust  bowlders  of  lava  which  send 
the  water  up  in  foam.  Again  there  are  long  gravel 
reaches  where  deep  and  silent  pools  give  the  river 
a  rest. 

The  trout  fisher  naturally  makes  toward  the  rapid 
water.  Knee-deep  seems  pretty  far  on  some  of  these 
white  water  channels;  hip-deep  is  more  than  most 
strangers  will  care  to  undertake ;  but  waist-deep  and 

54 


ANGLING  EXTRAORDINARY 

shoulder-deep  the  Rogue  River  angler  of  the  first 
class  will  go.  How  he  does  it  is  an  art  not  taken 
on  at  once  by  the  stranger.  Little  by  little  the  local 
man  learns  the  bottom  of  the  river,  learns  how  to 
balance  against  it.  There  is  quite  an  art  in  wading 
fast  water,  and  a  skillful  mountaineer  will  cross  a 
river  where  a  tenderfoot  would  lose  his  footing  at 
once.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  the  successful  Rogue 
River  angler  must  be  bold  enough  to  go  in  above 
waist-deep  and  be  able  to  stand  securely  enough  to 
cast  a  very  long  line  even  when  thus  half -sub- 
merged. 

The  fish  have  grown  cunning  of  late  years.  They 
lie  entirely  out  of  reach  of  the  shore.  Wade  your 
best,  you  must  do  fifty,  sixty,  seventy  feet  of  line, 
and  must  keep  your  wits  about  you  all  the  time. 
The  fish  itself  has  no  mercy  on  the  angler  and  in 
turn  the  angler  himself  feels  at  liberty  to  beach  a 
steelhead  whenever  he  gets  the  chance. 

Sometimes  large  takes  are  made,  but  of  late  days 
the  man  who  kills  a  half-dozen  steelheads  in  a  day 
is  doing  very  well.  His  fish  may  run  from  three 
to  eight,  ten  or  even  twelve  pounds  in  weight.  These 
larger  fish  in  this  bold  and  rushing  water  are,  under 
the  conditions  which  absolutely  govern  the  sport, 
almost  impossible  to  stop.  Skillful  anglers  are  con- 
tent if  they  kill  one  out  of  five  which  strike.  Indeed, 

55 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

take  steelhead  angling  all  the  way  through,  the 
angler  rarely  breaks  fifty-fifty  with  his  quarry. 

There  are  two  schools  of  Rogue  River  steelhead 
anglers,  those  who  stick  to  the  fly  and  those  who 
take  to  the  spoon.  The  spoon  used  on  the  Rogue 
River  is  a  singular  affair,  always  of  copper  and  very 
large,  about  the  size  proper  for  muskellunge  angling 
in  the  Middle  West.  Once  in  a  while  a  genuine 
salmon  will  strike  one  of  these  spoons;  cases  have 
been  known  where  forty-pound  fish  have  been  killed 
by  a  trout  angler.  This  spoon  is  usually  handled  as 
the  native  fisherman  for  bass  works  his  frog  bait — 
by  means  of  a  long  cane  pole  and  a  line  about  as 
long  as  the  pole. 

You  will  see  many  of  the  local  anglers,  some  of 
them  mere  boys,  wading  down  the  middle  of  this 
river,  at  times  making  a  crossing  from  side  to  side. 
Every  moment  you  expect  to  see  them  rushed  down- 
stream and  so  an  end  of  it.  But  they  pick  their 
way  along  gingerly,  slowly,  more  than  waist-deep 
very  often,  sometimes  supporting  themselves  with 
the  butt  of  the  cane  pole  (the  reel  is  commonly  put 
tip  five  feet  or  so  above  the  bottom  of  the  pole  in 
order  to  keep  it  dry).  As  such  an  angler  wades 
down  the  stream  he  flogs  the  water  on  both  sides 
as  far  as  he  can  reach,  and  thus  is  indeed  able  to 
fish  very  handily  the  fast  waters  and  the  heads  of 

56 


ANGLING  EXTRAORDINARY 

pools  lying  below  the  rapids.  It  is  perhaps  true 
that  more  steelheads  are  caught  on  the  cane  pole 
and  copper  spoon  than  in  any  other  way.  Let  no 
effete  Easterner  sneer  at  this  style,  for  the  betting 
is  ten  to  one  that  he  himself  can  not  practice  it. 
The  art  of  holding  one's  footing  on  the  smooth  rock 
or  on  the  uneven  lava  surfaces  is  one  not  picked  up 
in  a  day. 

The  lesser  school  of  steelhead  anglers  stick  to  the 
artificial  fly.  In  fact,  they  are  salmon  anglers  par 
excellence,  although  they  are  obliged  to  wade  in 
order  to  angle ;  they  can  not,  as  in  the  case  of  many 
Newfoundland,  New  Brunswick,  Quebec,  and  Nor- 
way salmon  waters,  fish  from  the  shore. 

The  steelhead  acts  very  much  like  salmo  solar, 
but  being  a  little  more  active  and  not  quite  so  heavy 
as  his  greater  cousin,  he  will  hang  more  to  white 
water  and  less  to  the  pools.  At  the  bottom  or  at 
the  edge  of  some  long,  rough  ridge  of  white  water, 
where  the  waves  run  four  or  five  feet  high,  he 
will  lie  behind  some  protecting  rock,  much  like  the 
salmon.  Sometimes  he  will  drop  into  a  pool  after 
the  typical  salmon  fashion.  His  hang-out  is  most 
apt  to  be  flanked  by  a  rushing  rapid  of  flung  white 
water.  When  hooked  he  does  not  stick  to  his  pool 
as  a  salmon  is  very  apt  to  do,  but  makes  at  once 
for  the  current.  What  that  means  in  the  tax  on 

57 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

single-hand  tackle,  any  angler  will  know  very  well. 

The  Mississippi  River  bass  fishing,  where  one 
may  play  a  black  bass  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  in  the 
heavy  current,  is  a  sort  of  kindergarten  preliminary 
in  the  study  of  steelhead  angling.  The  vigor  of  the 
fish  on  the  line  is  something  not  quite  understand- 
able by  the  eastern  angler  who  has  never  played  this 
particular  game.  Pound  for  pound,  in  his  own 
chosen  conditions,  the  steelhead  puts  up  a  far  fiercer, 
wilder,  and  more  difficult  fight  than  does  the  most 
difficult  example  of  salmo  solar  in  the  highest  priced 
salmon  river  in  the  world. 

He  is,  moreover,  democratic.  There  are  no  sal- 
mon preserves  on  the  Rogue  River  as  yet ;  it  is  open 
water  for  all  the  world.  Very  likely  it  always  will 
be.  Certainly  if  you  took  all  the  members  of  the 
swellest  salmon  clubs  of  Quebec  and  New  Bruns- 
wick and  put  them  on  the  Rogue  River  on  foot,  the 
fish  they  would  bring  in  at  night  would  not  always 
be  very  imposing  in  the  total. 

Time  was  when  the  steelhead  could  be  reached 
from  the  shores  of  the  Rogue  River  with  fair  suc- 
cess, but  he  has  learned  a  thing  or  two  in  the  fight 
for  life  and  today  he  is  a  wise,  wise  fish.  He  keeps 
out  so  that  you  are  obliged  to  wade  and  wait  for 
him  if  you  want  him.  If  you  slip — good-by!  The 
river  gets  you.  Anglers  do  swim  out  of  the  Rogue 

58 


ANGLING  EXTRAORDINARY 

River  every  once  in  a  while,  because  they  have  to 
swim;  no  man  who  is  not  a  bold  swimmer  has  any 
business  wading  the  Rogue.  But  sometimes,  in 
very  wild  water,  the  angler  does  not  get  out.  The 
writer  fished  with  one  skillful  angler  who  admitted 
that  he  had  lost  a  part  of  his  nerve.  "I  saw  my 
pal  drowned  before  my  eyes  two  years  ago,"  said 
he.  Each  year  at  one  place  or  another  there  is  apt 
to  be  the  record  of  a  life  lost.  Still  the  sport  itself 
is  no  such  gruesome  affair  as  the  foregoing  might 
seem  to  indicate.  Its  difficulties  are  those  which 
can  be  circumvented  by  bold  and  hardy  men. 

Local  anglers  gradually  learn  contempt  of  the 
dangers.  Gradually  also  they  get  a  sort  of  instinct 
by  which  they  can  judge  the  bottom  of  the  river. 
Indeed,  they  know  the  bottom  like  a  book  in  the 
more  familiar  reaches  which  they  often  fish.  If 
you  wish  to  see  Rogue  River  steelhead  angling  at 
its  best,  therefore,  you  would  best  go  out  with  some 
of  the  more  seasoned  anglers  of  Ashland,  Medford, 
or  Grant's  Pass,  communities  where  this  cult  most 
flourishes.  In  these  little  cities  one  can  get  very 
comfortable  accommodations  and  can  readily  get 
general  directions  for  the  river.  The  stranger, 
however,  would  be  more  or  less  helpless  and  there 
are  few  or  no  professional  guides.  One  will  find 
the  angling  sportsmen  of  this  country  the  soul  of 

59 


hospitality,  ready  to  help  him  learn  the  game,  and 
so  well  acquainted  with  the  difficulty  of  the  game 
that  they  do  not  laugh  at  the  inefficiency  of  the  be- 
ginner. 

In  the  Rogue  River  valley  it  is  sometimes  hot  in 
the  summer  time — one  hundred,  one  hundred  and 
two,  one  hundred  and  five  in  the  shade,  and  no  one 
knows  what  in  the  sun.  The  heat  does  not  seem 
oppressive  but  it  has  a  tendency,  when  continued 
through  a  term  of  days  or  weeks,  to  drive  the  fish 
out  into  the  deeper  water.  Very  early  morning  or 
late  in  the  evening  will  be  the  best  time  then  to 
angle  for  steelheads.  Throughout  the  day  one  might 
not  get  more  than  two  or  three  strikes  in  reward 
for  patient  casting. 

The  rod  for  steelhead  fishing  must  be  -very  power- 
ful, of  course.  The  fish  can  be  killed  on  the  ordi- 
nary five-ounce  or  six-ounce  trout  rod,  but  one  of 
eight  or  ten  ounces,  built  short,  stocky,  and  power- 
ful, is  better.  It  must  be  able  to  handle  a  long  line, 
which  means  a  heavy  line,  one  practically  of  light 
salmon  size.  As  the  angler  wades  deep  in  the  water 
there  will  be  much  line  submerged  in  his  casting, 
and  his  rod  must  be  powerful  in  order  to  lift  it — 
as  must  his  wrist  be  also.  Once  the  fish  is  hooked 
and  free  in  that  boiling  torrent  the  rod  has  asked  of 
it  all  that  any  rod  can  give.  To  be  most  efficient 

60 


ANGLING  EXTRAORDINARY 

it  must,  in  effect,  be  of  just  as  much  weight  as  one 
can  handle  single-handed  with  the  heavy  line. 

The  steelhead  will  follow  the  fancy  of  fresh- 
water trout  in  its  selection  of  flies.  In  habits  some- 
what like  the  fresh-run  salmon,  it  still  rather  favors 
the  fresh-water  trout,  and  it  is  not  customary  to 
angle  for  it  with  the  gaudy  flies  which  alone  serve 
in  salmon  angling.  In  the  summer  evenings  the 
local  anglers  favor  gray  hackles,  brown  hackles,  or 
some  modest  fly  of  that  description.  Number  one 
hook — large  enough  for  any  black  bass  in  the  world 
— is  a  favored  size  for  that  river.  It  is  to  be  under- 
stood that  the  strain  on  the  tackle  is  extreme.  The 
hook  must  be  large  enough  not  to  tear  out  of  the 
fish's  mouth.  At  times  in  the  evening  the  coachman 
or  even  the  white  miller  is  found  effective.  Most 
anglers  will  change  flies  during  the  day  as  they  do 
on  any  trout  stream.  The  usual  uncertainty  as  to 
what  the  steelhead  actually  is  going  to  want  is  before 
you  all  the  time.  At  the  time  of  the  writer's  visit 
the  gray  hackle  was  perhaps  the  best  fly  in  use. 

In  a  river  like  this  it  is  naturally  some  time  be- 
fore a  fish  can  be  subdued  after  it  once  is  hooked. 
The  angler  will  have  a  fight  on  his  hands  every 
minute  of  the  time  that  he  is  engaged,  he  may  rest 
assured  of  that.  He  sometimes  will  have  rushing 
tactics,  boring  and  sulking  sometimes;  but  his  fish, 

61 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

being  smaller  than  a  genuine  salmon,  will  rush 
more,  leap  more,  and  be  more  active.  Again,  it 
will  make  extremely  long  runs;  I  have  never  seen 
any  trout  take  off  as  much  line  at  one  run  as  the 
steelhead  does. 

Of  course,  in  this  sort  of  fishing  the  shoes  are 
heavily  hobnailed.  Beyond  that  the  angler  does  not 
wear  very  much  of  a  costume.  Waders  would  be  out 
of  the  question;  to  be  carried  down  in  breast-high 
waders  would  mean  death  in  that  stream  for  any 
swimmer.  Stripped  to  overalls  and  undershirt  and 
wading  shoes,  these  men  go  into  battle — for  battle 
it  is  in  any  just  description.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
the  Rogue  River  takes  a  certain  toll  each  year; 
but  the  veterans  of  the  game  do  not  find  in  it 
anything  extra  hazardous,  and  rather  laugh  at  the 
idea  of  any  apprehension  on  their  account.  Indeed, 
man  is  a  curiously  adaptive  animal ;  he  will  become 
accustomed  to  any  clime,  to  any  occupation,  to  any 
hazard.  The  Rogue  River  angler,  like  the  soldier 
accustomed  to  war,  becomes  hardened  to  the  game 
and  thinks  nothing  of  it. 

In  play  on  the  rod  when  actually  hooked,  the 
steelhead  is  a  combination  of  all  the  artfulness, 
courage,  and  strength  which  exist  anywhere  in  game 
fishes.  He  will  rush  like  a  muskellunge,  tug  like  a 
black  bass,  sulk  or  rush  like  a  salmon,  and  leap  like 

62 


ANGLING  EXTRAORDINARY 

a  trout.  A  favorite  maneuver  on  his  part  seems 
to  be  a  sullen  shaking  of  the  head.  You  feel  a  series 
of  short,  savage  jerks  at  the  line  as  he  tries  to  get 
latitude  enough  for  bursting  out  into  the  heavy 
water  where  he  knows  that  the  current  against  his 
side  will  give  him  added  leverage  against  the  rod. 
He  will  always  fight  remote  from  the  angler — fifty, 
sixty,  seventy-five  feet ;  so  that  in  the  dim  light  of 
evening  it  often  is  difficult  to  see  clearly  what  the  fish 
is  doing,  even  when  he  jumps.  Only  out  at  the  end 
of  that  tense  strand  of  silk  one  feels  something  sav- 
age, courageous,  fearless.  Take  this  feeling,  with 
that  inspired  by  the  river,  and  the  angler  is  not  al- 
ways sure  whether  he  is  the  pursued  or  the  pursuer. 

Good  tactics  require  that  the  angler  shall  lead 
his  fish  into  quiet  water  as  soon  as  possible.  Some- 
times that  means  that  he  must  wade  across  deeper 
channels  of  water  between  the  reef  where  he  has 
been  standing  and  the  shore,  distant  perhaps  fifty 
or  sixty  yards.  I  have  seen  anglers  come  in  across 
these  deeper  gaps,  wading  chin-deep,  rod  held  above 
the  head,  all  the  time  fighting  a  five-pound  fish 
eighty  feet  away.  There  are  times  when  the  strain 
of  the  fish  on  the  rod  will  serve  to  overbalance  a 
wading  angler. 

For  the  table  the  steelhead  is  edible,  as  are  all 
members  of  the  salmon  family.  He  is  hard  and 

63 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

muscular,  however,  and  the  flesh  is  a  trifle  dry.  I 
did  not  find  it  so  palatable  as  that  of  the  Atlantic 
salmon  of  Quebec.  The  local  anglers,  used  to  the 
fish,  do  not  much  prize  it — or  indeed  any  fish — once 
it  has  come  to  the  basket.  To  strangers  who  see  the 
species  for  the  first  time,  the  short,  thick,  sturdy, 
muscular,  little  salmon  appears  to  be  as  delectable 
as  any  fish. 

Oregon  has  found  fame  in  wheat,  in  apples,  in 
many  other  things.  In  a  mild  way  something  is 
known  in  the  angling  world  about  the  steelhead 
angling  of  the  Rogue  River  and  other  Oregon 
streams,  but  thus  far  the  sport  has  been  rather 
local.  Once  its  fame  becomes  generally  known,  the 
Rogue  River  ought  to  be  one  of  the  select  angling 
waters  of  all  the  world.  The  sportsman  of  any 
land  who  can  say  that  he  has  to  his  own  rod  killed 
a  six-pound  steelhead  in  the  Rogue  while  wading 
waist-deep  is  entitled  to  respect  in  any  group  of 
anglers.  Thousands  of  men  have  killed  their  sal- 
mon skillfully  and  comfortably  and  enjoyably,  but 
you  will  number  in  less  than  hundreds  the  fly-fisher- 
men who  ever  have  killed  their  steelhead,  fair  and 
square,  heel  and  toe,  they  and  the  Rogue  River  for 
it,  and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost.  If  this  is  not 
the  top  notch  of  fly-fishing  for  all  the  world,  I  do 
not  know  where  to  look  for  it. 

64 


rv 

THE  INCONNU— WHAT  IT  IS  NOT 


rv 

THE  INCONNU— WHAT  IT  IS  NOT 

WHO  of  sporting  tastes  has  not  from  his 
boyhood  read  of  the  voyages  of  the  early 
explorers  of  the  sub-Arctic  regions — 
Hearne  and  Pond  and  Mackenzie,  and  those  others 
who  went  North  before  there  were  even  those  car- 
tographic bluffs  which  now  pass  as  maps  of  that  far- 
off  country  ?    And  which  of  us,  so  reading,  has  not 
retained  some  vague  remembrance  of  the  mysterious 
animal  known  as  the  inconnu,  found  in  the  fauna 
of  that  far-off  land? 

Such,  at  least,  was  my  own  youthful  experience. 
Later  on,  passing  from  callow  youth,  when  I  had 
ceased  to  read  of  early  voyageurs  and  was  trying  to 
pay  for  a  dress  suit  on  the  installment  plan — which 
fully  occupied  my  mind  for  some  years — I  still 
retained  a  hazy  idea  that  somewhere  up  North  there 
was  an  animal  which  Sir  Alexander  Mackenzie  had 
been  unable  to  place  and  which  he  had  called  the 
what-is-it  or  the  unknown  or  the  inconnu.  In  my 
trusting  soul  I  hoped  one  day  to  meet  an  inconnu, 
whatever  it  might  be. 

67 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

It  never  occurred  to  me  at  that  time  to  look  in 
the  dictionary  or  the  encyclopedia  to  learn  about 
this  mysterious  critter.  Never,  indeed,  until  long 
after  I  had  first  met  the  inconnu  in  mortal  combat 
did  I  consult  the  encyclopedia.  Since  that  time  I 
have  never  touched  my  forelock,  as  was  once  my 
wont,  whenever  passing  in  front  of  my  encyclopedia 
— because,  in  good  sooth,  the  encyclopedia  knows  no 
more  about  the  inconnu  than  any  of  the  rest  of  us. 

All  the  way  north  from  the  edge  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains  in  the  Athabasca  system  we  heard  the 
swarthy  voyageurs — you  yourself  would  be  swarthy 
if  you  used  soap  no  oftener  than  they  do — speak 
in  hushed  tones  of  the  inconnu,  which,  they  said, 
we  were  sure  to  meet  in  our  dangerous  voyage  in 
the  extreme  northern  country. 

Each  time  they  spoke  of  it  I  grasped  my  trusty 
rifle  tighter,  resolved  to  sell  my  life  as  dearly  as 
possible  if  attacked  by  one  of  these  ferocious  crea- 
tures. We  had  men  with  us  who  had  killed  big 
game  all  the  way  from  New  Zealand  to  New  Jersey ; 
but  none  of  them  had  ever  met  the  inconnu. 

On  deck  at  night,  under  the  paling  Northern  sun, 
we  held  councils  of  war  discussing  questions  of 
proper  equipment;  and,  new  to  that  land,  we  re- 
solved to  do  our  best  to  uphold  the  traditions  of 
American  sportsmanship,  though  then  under  the 

68 


THE  INCONNU— WHAT  IT  IS  NOT 

British  flag — which,  of  course,  has  more  traditions 
than  any  other  in  regard  to  sport.  In  plain  United 
States,  we  resolved  to  give  any  inconnu  a  run  for 
its  money  if  it  ever  locked  horns  with  us.  At  that 
time  we  thought  it  had  horns. 

Time  passed  and  we  saw  no  inconnu,  though  we 
gumshoed  round  the  camp  every  night  looking  for 
tracks.  We  got  to  Fort  MacMurray  and  still  had 
seen  none.  Most  of  the  population  of  Fort  Mac- 
Murray  bears  the  name  of  Loutit,  on  account  of 
an  active  ancestor  who  arrived  there  some  years 
ago  and  established  a  family  tree  which  is  still  grow- 
ing; but  not  even  any  of  the  Loutit  family,  which 
covers  several  degrees  of  latitude,  had  ever  seen  an 
inconnu  there.  Neither,  though  we  kept  a  sharp 
watch  day  and  night  with  field-glasses,  did  we  dis- 
cover any  inconnu  all  the  way  down  the  river  to 
Lake  Athabasca. 

No  one  at  Chippewyan  had  ever  heard  of  an  in- 
connu in  that  neighborhood.  We  began  to  think 
we  had  been  made  victims  of  a  cruel  hoax,  and 
we  rechristened  the  inconnu  as  the  bull-connu,  clas- 
sifying it  with  the  jokes  about  the  handle  of  a  valve 
or  the  insects  among  the  type  which  are  shown  to 
the  cub  compositor  in  a  printing  office. 

When  we  reached  Smith's  Landing  at  the  falls 
of  Great  Slave  River,  the  plot  began  to  thicken.  We 

69 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

were  told  that  sixteen  miles  below,  at  the  foot  of 
the  rapids,  we  should  surely  find  the  inconnu;  but 
though  we  oiled  up  our  guns  and  prepared  for  the 
"imminent  deadly  breach,"  we  did  not  see  the  said 
inconnu  according  to  schedule. 

"You'll  see  one  before  long  if  you  keep  on  going 
north,"  said  the  captain  of  our  steamboat. 

We  did  not  see  him,  however,  though  we  kept  on 
going  north.  We  passed  into  Great  Slave  Lake  and 
inquired  at  Fort  Resolution  whether  the  inconnu 
had  come  so  far  south  on  its  annual  migration,  but 
there  was  nothing  doing  either  there  or  at  Fort 
Rae,  according  to  the  best  obtainable  reports.  We 
had,  in  fact,  arrived  at  Hay  River — where  there  is 
no  hay — before,  by  the  merest  accident,  I  first  met 
an  actual  inconnu. 

In  all  this  time  on  the  river  steamboat  we  had 
been,  as  one  may  say,  almost  on  the  point  of  mutiny 
over  the  kippered  herring  and  tinned  salmon  which 
made  a  good  part  of  the  bill  of  fare.  At  Hay  River, 
in  a  fit  of  desperation,  I  chartered  an  Indian  boy 
and  rowed  about  four  miles  to  run  some  nets  which 
he  or  someone  else  owned,  and  which  might  or 
might  contain  some  fish,  not  as  yet,  in  tin 
cans. 

Arrived  there,  the  said  Indian  youth  casually 
began  to  unload  from  the  nets  into  the  boat  a  bunch 

70 


THE  INCONNU— WHAT  IT  IS  NOT 

of  fish  which  left  me  helpless  with  amazement.  This 
was  on  the  reefs  at  the  edge  of  Great  Slave  Lake, 
near  the  mouth  of  Hay  River.  The  boy,  with  whom 
I  had  been  unable  to  establish  any  sort  of  lingual 
understanding,  began  to  pull  out  suckers,  whitefish, 
and  jackfish — which  we  call  pike — until  our  leaky 
skiff  looked  as  though  it  were  getting  ready  to  sink 
at  any  moment. 

I  heard  him  thumping  at  something  in  the  net 
and  he  casually  hauled  over  the  gunwale  a  twenty- 
five-pound  lake  trout,  repeating  the  act  an  instant 
later  with  yet  another  and  larger  one.  Also  he  un- 
coiled several  whitefish  that  would  be  worth,  at  city 
retail  prices,  about  fifteen  dollars  each.  Still  he  was 
not  content. 

After  a  time  he  flung  behind  him  into  the  boat  a 
long,  silverish-looking  fish  which  I  saw  at  once  was 
a  whitefish — and  later  saw  was  nothing  of  the  sort. 
It  was  not  a  salmon  or  a  sucker  or  a  whitefish  or  a 
pike-perch,  or  like  any  one  of  them,  but  a  good 
deal  like  all  of  them. 

In  short,  it  was  an  inconnu!  All  the  specimens 
of  inconnu  we  took  from  these  nets — I  have  often 
wondered  whose  nets  we  really  were  running — were 
stiff  and  dead,  with  their  mouths  wide  open,  though 
none  of  the  other  fish  taken  in  the  gill-net  were  dead. 
My  attention  being  thus  called  to  the  mouth  of  the 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

fish,  I  found  it  to  be  almost  square,  with  a  sort  of 
projecting  rim,  so  that  it  stuck  out  in  front  of  the 
fish's  countenance  something  like  the  mouth  of  the 
sucker;  only  it  was  larger  and  more  directly  east 
of  the  fish's  face. 

Each  of  the  specimens  we  took  ran  eight  or  nine 
pounds,  being  small,  as  I  found  later.  The  tail  was 
not  square  like  that  of  any  of  the  salmon  family, 
but  forked.  Yet  to  my  astonishment  I  found  the 
fatty  little  caudal  fin  which  is  supposed  to  be  dis- 
tinctive of  the  salmon  family.  The  body  was  not 
the  shape  of  a  salmon's  but  more  like  that  of  a  giant 
whitefish,  somewhat  flattened,  the  general  lines 
being  those  of  the  pike-perch  or  wall-eyed  pike, 
except  that  the  mouth  was  quite  different — also  the 
head  and  everything  else. 

Naturally  I  could  not  name  this  fish  at  the  time, 
though  I  examined  it  with  curiosity.  Thus  far  I 
had  been  unable  to  diagnose  the  parentage  of  my 
companion,  whether  French,  Scotch,  or  English — 
I  could  never  get  used  to  a  half  breed  who  says 
"cawn't"  instead  of  "can't";  but  having  tried  him 
in  French,  Spanish,  Cree,  Chippewyan,  and  Black- 
foot,  I  concluded  to  try  English,  knowing  that  he 
was  a  mission  boy. 

"What  in  blazes  do  you  call  this  thing?"  I  asked 
him. 

72 


THE  INCONNU— WHAT  IT  IS  NOT 

"That?"  said  he.  "Why,  that's  a  conny.  Didn't 
you  know  it?" 

Now  "conny"  is  Hudson  Bay  for  inconnu. 

I  sat  and  gazed  at  this  creature  for  some  time. 
It  did  not  look  dangerous  but,  rather,  quite  decidedly 
mild,  especially  as  it  was  dead,  the  only  dead  fish 
taken  in  the  net.  It  had  a  reminiscent  sort  of  look, 
like  some  of  the  jokes  in  the  Sunday  newspaper. 

"I  have  seen  your  face  before,"  you  say  some- 
times when  you  meet  a  gentleman  who  will  not  tell 
you  his  name.  I  had  never  seen  this  face  before, 
and  neither  had  the  artist  who  made  its  picture  in 
the  encyclopedia — a  portrait  which  resembles  the  in- 
connu about  as  much  as  an  art  photograph  of  a 
dramatic  celebrity  looks  like  the  same  celebrity  be- 
fore breakfast.  Even  so,  the  picture  is  quite  as 
accurate  as  the  context  which  goes  with  it  in  the 
average  encyclopedia. 

We  paddled  back  to  our  steamship  and  displayed 
our  fish,  much  to  the  joy  of  the  kippered  passengers. 
The  deckhands,  the  purser,  the  captain,  the  soldiers, 
villagers,  and  others  all  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the 
steamboat  and  looked  at  our  mysterious  strangers 
and  said :  "Conny,  huh  ?"  After  that  I  felt  the  re- 
port did  not  lack  confirmation.  It  was  thus  that 
one  of  my  boyhood's  dreams  came  true.  We  had 
met  the  inconnu  and  it  was  ours ! 

73 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

We  ate  the  inconnu  then  and  many  times  after- 
ward, far  above  the  Arctic  Circle.  It  has  not  the 
taste  of  the  salmon  at  all.  Served  often  on  the 
same  table  with  whitefish,  we  found  that  after  a 
time  we  gravitated  toward  the  dish  of  whitefish, 
which  is  more  delicate  though  also  fat.  There  is 
perhaps  a  slight  richness  or  oiliness  in  the  taste  of 
the  inconnu. 

One  is  apt  to  eat  rather  too  much  of  it  at  first, 
especially  if  one  has  undergone  a  preparatory  course 
of  kippered  herring.  None  the  less  it  is  an  excellent 
table  fish  and  as  such  it  is  put  up  by  thousands  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  in  the  Far  North;  also,  as 
food  for  dogs.  I  saw  many  great  specimens  of  this 
fish,  split  open  along  the  back — like  your  wife's 
party  gown — as  they  always  open  fish  in  the  North, 
and  hung  out  to  dry  around  Indian  camps.  At 
Fort  McPherson  I  saw  two  taken  from  one  net 
which  I  thought  would  weigh  forty  pounds  apiece, 
and  I  have  heard  they  go  to  sixty  pounds. 

The  inconnu  is  not  a  salmon  but  it  is  more  of  a 
sporting  fish  than  any  but  the  Atlantic  salmon.  It 
strikes  the  trolling  bait  freely,  is  not  shy,  and  puts 
up  quite  a  scrap  in  spite  of  its  squarehead  look.  It 
was  one  of  the  regrets  of  our  Northern  trip  that 
we  had  no  flyrod  along  with  us.  I  would  gladly 
have  given  a  hundred  dollars  for  a  flyrod  during 

74 


THE  INCONNU— WHAT  IT  IS  NOT 

one  evening's  sport  with  Arctic  trout  and  grayling 
on  the  streams  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  about  a 
hundred  miles  south  of  the  Arctic  Ocean.  There 
is  no  angling  like  it  in  any  country  I  have  ever  seen. 

And  again  I  would  have  given  a  like  sum  for  half 
a  day's  sport  with  a  good  casting  rod  and  proper 
lures  at  any  of  several  localities  we  saw  where  the 
inconnu  was  present  in  full  force.  We  took  these 
fish  on  rude  tackle — that  is  to  say,  others  did.  I 
would  not  give  a  snap  to  take  game  fish  in  any  way 
but  on  a  good  rod,  giving  them  a  sporting  chance 
and  myself  sporting  experience  as  well.  In  short, 
the  inconnu  has  never  received  the  full  meed  of 
praise  that  should  be  his,  nor  has  he  often  been 
allowed  a  sporting  chance.  He  lives  for  the  one 
purpose  of  poking  his  head  into  a  gill-net  so  that 
you  may  eat  him.  He  even  relieves  you  of  the 
trouble  of  killing  him,  for  you  always  find  him 
dead.  He  is  the  most  amiable  of  fishes,  the  most 
unsung,  unknelled  and  unknown. 

At  Fort  McPherson,  which  is  thirty  miles  up  the 
Peel  River,  a  tributary  of  the  Mackenzie,  we  found 
the  connies  quite  abundant,  and  we  then  heard  of 
different  localities  in  the  neighborhood  where  the 
natives  had  always  found  them  in  regular  supply. 
Such  a  place  we  found  on  the  Husky  River,  one 
of  the  delta  branches  of  the  Mackenzie,  at  the  mouth 

75 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

of  a  little  creek  leading  back  into  some  inland  lakes. 

We  did  not  learn  that  the  connies  ever  went  into 
the  lakes,  but  here  at  the  mouth  of  this  little  creek 
they  were  schooling  in  thousands,  and  we  were  told 
that  this  was  always  held  to  be  a  certain  fishing 
place  by  the  natives  who  travel  up  and  down  that 
river.  The  scene  here  was  much  like  that  of  a  sal- 
mon run  in  the  salt  water  a  day  or  so  before  the 
fish  move  up  into  some  fresh-water  stream. 

Here,  however,  there  was  no  salt  water,  neither 
did  the  fish  jump  free  into  the  air;  but  they  kept 
the  surface  churned  up  in  hundreds  of  waves  where 
only  their  backs  and  shoulders  showed.  They  were 
supposed  to  be  feeding  on  minnows,  but  we  could 
not  see  any  minnows,  though  the  fish  often  broke 
within  a  few  feet  of  us,  apparently  feeding. 

When  we  made  our  encampment  at  this  spot  we 
were  hungry,  as  everyone  in  the  North  is  all  the 
time;  and  when  one  is  short  of  grub  in  the  North 
he  goes  after  connies  if  possible.  We  had  no  net 
with  us  and  no  fishing  rods  nor  any  bait.  Fortu- 
nately, under  some  sneaking  sort  of  notion  that  we 
might  have  trolling  for  lake  trout,  I  had  taken 
along,  against  all  counsel,  a  few  assorted  sizes  of 
trolling  spoons.  These  we  now  put  into  commis- 
sion, lacking  anything  better. 

One  of  the  party  tried  to  use  a  clumsy  willow  rod, 
76 


THE  INCONNU— WHAT  IT  IS  NOT 

but  he  was  clumsy  himself,  not  used  to  fishing,  and 
so  lost  several  fish  which  struck  directly  at  the  side 
of  the  boat.  The  other  fisherman  was  a  trapper 
who  lived  in  that  country.  He  caught  six  or  eight 
fine  connies  on  a  stout  hand  line  and  spoonhook, 
simply  by  throwing  the  spoonhook  out  as  far  as  he 
could  and  pulling  it  in  hand  over  hand.  It  was  a 
crude  method,  but  it  worked. 

A  gill-net  set  across  that  stream  at  that  time 
would  either  have  been  torn  to  pieces  or  taken  out 
full  of  these  great  fish.  My  admiration  for  the 
conny  rose  very  distinctly,  and  it  was  then  that 
above  all  things  I  honed,  sighed,  and  pined  for  any- 
thing in  the  most  remote  manner  resembling  a  fish- 
ing rod  and  reel.  Then  and  there  I  forgave  the 
conny  for  looking  like  a  sucker,  a  whitefish,  and 
several  other  fishes  which  it  is  not. 

Many  a  man  takes  down  a  good  salary  by  handing 
out  solemn  stuff  about  vomers,  and  supramaxillaries, 
and  palatines,  because  he  is  pretty  sure  no  one  is 
going  to  call  him  on  his  statements;  but  none  of 
these  gentlemen  in  their  recorded  works,  albeit  ab- 
breviated to  meet  the  needs  of  the  encyclopedias, 
tells  us  about  the  personal  habits  of  the  inconnu  or 
attempts  to  explain  the  bar  sinister  that  seems  to 
prevail  in  its  family. 

Even  in  the  North,  where  the  entire  population 
77 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

lives  on  conny  half  the  year  and  hope  and  whitefish 
the  other  half,  there  seems  to  be  no  one  who  knows 
very  much  about  this  mysterious  fish.  I  could  not 
learn  whether  or  not  it  comes  out  of  the  ocean, 
whether  or  not  it  is  ever  taken  in  salt  water.  I 
could  not  learn  its  spawning  season,  though  I  pre- 
sume it  to  be  in  the  spring  or  early  summer.  We 
know  all  about  fur  seals  but  no  one  describes 
the  pelagic  pursuit  of  the  inconnu  amid  the  unknown 
islands  of  the  North. 

In  appearance  the  fish  did  not  in  the  least  re- 
semble a  salmon  which  has  come  out  of  salt  water, 
reached  its  spawning  grounds,  and  dropped  back. 
It  is  a  bright,  clean  silver  color ;  the  scales  are  rather 
coarse,  more  like  those  of  the  whitefish  than  of  the 
salmon,  which,  of  course,  scarcely  seems  to  have 
scales  at  all.  Even  in  the  muddy  water  far  up  the 
Mackenzie  River  it  retains  this  clean  look,  though 
the  Athabasca,  the  Great  Slave  and  parts  of  the 
Mackenzie  are  among  the  dirtiest  waterways  of  the 
entire  world. 

The  inconnu  seems  to  survive  sediment.  So  far 
as  known,  it  never  is  found  south — that  is  to  say, 
upstream — beyond  tke  great  rapids  of  the  Great 
Slave  River,  between  Fort  Smith  and  Smith's  Land- 
ing. That  sixteen  miles  of  wild  waters  seems  a  sort 
of  dividing  line  between  tame  things  and  wild 

78 


THE  INCONNU— WHAT  IT  IS  NOT 

things,  when  it  comes  to  that,  between  known 
things  and  the  unknown,  between  us  and  the  in- 
connu. 

Well,  anyway,  we  saw  the  inconnu,  bearded  it 
in  its  den,  and  survived. 

As  to  the  inconnu  itself,  it  has  no  very  exact  por- 
trait at  present  extant  and  up  to  date.  Much  as  I 
desired  it,  there  was  never  any  camera  when  there 
was  any  inconnu — except  once,  when  the  results 
were  not  wholly  satisfactory  but  good  enough  to 
show  the  facial  contour  of  the  fish  and  the  size  it 
sometimes  attains.  So  far  as  known,  this  is  the  only 
photograph  of  the  inconnu  to  find  its  way  out. 

The"  great  aim  in  the  life  of  the  fish  seems  to  be 
to  enshroud  itself  in  mystery  and  gill-nets.  We  are 
obliged  to  leave  it  in  full  possession  of  the  field  and 
holding  down  its  reputation  and  its  name.  We 
should  protest  its  loose  classification  under  the  name 
Inconnu  stenodus  Mackenzie.  Mackenzie  had  no 
stenodus  or  stenogus  at  all.  True,  its  name  may  be 
a  case  of  bad  handwriting.  The  fish  itself  seems 
to  be  a  case  of  careless  handicraft  on  the  part  of 
Nature. 


V 

IN,  THE  JEWEL  BOX 


V 

IN  THE  JEWEL  BOX 

THAT  gay  gentleman,  Philippe,  Due  d'Or- 
leans,    Regent   of   France   following  the 
death  of  Louis  XIV,  organized  his  life, 
in  general,  on  the  principle  that  everyone  loves  a 
cheerful  spender.    At  times,  however,  he  would  sigh 
with  regret  that  the  lower  classes,  peasantry  or 
canaille,  were  disposed  to  be  resentful  about  their 
taxes,  he  being  well  advised  that  if  the  taxes  were 
taken  away  from  him  he  could  not  continue  his  little 
suppers. 

A  friend  of  the  Regent  was  the  Due  de  Saint- 
Simon,  author  of  the  best  memoirs  of  his  time  and 
an  excellent  Boswell  to  the  Grand  Monarch  and  the 
Gay  Regent  alike.  This  worthy  duck,  duke,  or  due 
was  ever  a  steadfast  counselor  to  the  mighty  always 
to  be  mighty  and  always,  so  to  speak,  to  throw  out 
a  front.  One  conversation  between  the  Due  de 
Saint-Simon  and  the  Regent  was  on  the  question  of 
buying  another  diamond  for  the  enrichment  of  the 
crown  jewels  of  France — and  incidentally  for  the 

83 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

pleasance  of  the  Regent  and  the  ladies.  Saint-Simon 
describes  the  matter  thus : 

"By  extremely  rare  good  fortune  a  servant  em- 
ployed in  the  diamond  mines  of  the  Great  Mogul 
found  means  to  secrete  about  his  person  a  diamond 
of  prodigious  size.  To  complete  his  good  fortune 
he  safely  arrived  in  Europe  with  his  diamond.  He 
showed  it  to  several  princes,  none  of  whom  were 
rich  enough  to  buy,  and  carried  it  at  last  to  England, 
where  the  King  desired  it,  but  could  not  resolve 
to  purchase  it.  A  model  of  it  in  crystal  was  made 
in  England;  and  the  man,  the  diamond  and  this 
model  were  introduced  to  the  financier,  John  Law, 
then  prominent  in  Paris,  who  proposed  to  the  Re- 
gent that  he  should  purchase  the  jewel  for  the  King. 
The  price  dismayed  the  Regent,  who  refused  to  buy. 

"The  state  of  the  finances  was  an  obstacle  on 
which  the  Regent  much  insisted.  He  feared  blame 
for  making  so  considerable  a  purchase  while  the 
most  pressing  necessaries  could  only  be  provided  for 
with  much  trouble.  I  praised  his  sentiment,  but 
said  that  he  ought  not  to  regard  the  greatest  king 
of  Europe  as  he  would  a  private  gentleman;  that 
this  was  a  glory  for  his  regency  that  would  last 
forever;  that,  whatever  might  be  the  state  of  the 
finances,  the  saving  obtained  by  the  refusal  of  the 
jewel  would  not  much  relieve  them — in  fact,  I  did 

84 


IN  THE  JEWEL  BOX 

not  quit  Monsieur  le  Due  d'Orleans  until  he  had 
promised  that  the  jewel  should  be  bought.  .  .  .  The 
bargain  was  concluded  on  these  terms.  Monsieur 
le  Due  d'Orleans  was  agreeably  surprised  by  the 
applause  the  public  gave  to  an  acquisition  so  beau- 
tiful and  so  unique.  The  jewel  is  known  as  the 
Regent's  Diamond." 

We  do  not  have  kings  and  crown  jewels  and  re- 
gents in  this  little  old  Republic  of  our  own.  Mostly 
we  have  business.  But  we  have  been  so  successful, 
and  are  now  so  great  and  rich,  that  before  long  it 
will  be  our  duty  to  hand  down  to  later  generations 
some  objective  proof  of  our  own  greatness  and  rich- 
ness. We  must  some  time  be  able  to  say  that  we 
can  afford  all  these  unused  things  of  value  and  can 
lock  them  up  to  show  to  other  generations — that 
is  to  say,  like  most  rich  and  successful  persons,  some 
time  in  our  career  we  shall  want  to  offer  proof  that 
we  do  not  have  to  save  the  nickels  any  more  and 
that  now  and  then  we  can  afford  a  little  leisure. 

What  are  our  American  jewels  ?  Some  time  they 
will  be  cathedrals,  museums  and  art  galleries.  Mean- 
time— and  also  some  time — they  will  be  our  splendid 
mountains,  our  wildernesses,  our  sporting  out-of- 
doors,  where  a  man  can  wear  a  blue  shirt  and 
swear  by  the  nine  gods. 

Speaking  of  jewels,  however,  are  you  familiar 
85 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

with  the  Sierra?  The  Rockies?  Do  you  know 
how  exceedingly  beautiful  Nature  is  in  some  of  the 
most  favored  portions  of  those  countries,  how  ex- 
tremely fascinating  they  are  in  the  best  of  Nature's 
moods  ?  In  the  high  mountains  the  air  is  so  brilliant 
it  carries  an  actual  sting,  almost  like  that  of  dia- 
mond rays.  The  grass  and  the  trees  are  as  green  as 
emeralds — not  less.  The  blue  of  the  cloudless  sky — 
so  much  bluer  than  you  ever  can  see  blue  in  lower 
or  moister  countries — is  deep  sapphire,  or  sapphire 
plus  something. 

The  sunset  is  made  up  of  a  million  giant  opals. 
Topaz  and  tourmaline  lurk  in  all  the  rocks.  Lapis 
lazuli  and  aquamarine  lie  at  the  bottom  of  all  the 
lakes.  Have  you  never  sat  on  the  high  shoulder  of 
some  hill,  up  near  the  clouds,  where  the  wind  blew 
clean,  and  felt  the  same  fascination  you  experienced 
when  you  looked  at  a  mass  of  glitt'-.mg  gems — 
jewels  accumulated  by  some  monarch  who  could 
afford  to  buy  them  and  keep  them — just  as  this  Re- 
public can  afford  to  buy  and  keep  the  best  of  its 
mountain  landscapes? 

It  is  enough  simply  to  be  alive  in  the  high  Sierra, 
in  the  upper  Rockies — above  the  timber  line,  up 
near  the  snow.  Lower  down,  also,  the  scent  of  the 
pines,  the  taste  of  the  white  water,  the  sight  of  the 
blue,  wavering  pennant  of  the  camp  fire — these  are 

86 


IN  THE  JEWEL  BOX 

almost  delight  enough;  but  if  carnal  man  demands 
trout  for  the  table,  why,  then  it  is  boots  and  saddle, 
and,  rod  under  leg,  one  rides  even  deeper  into  the 
wilderness. 

Who  has  not  felt,  betimes,  the  spell  of  the  moun- 
tain river  roaring  down  out  of  its  high  sources, 
white  over  the  rocks,  deep  and  cool  green  in  the 
pools  ?  It  is  in  human  nature  to  want  to  follow  any 
such  stream  clear  to  the  head.  There  never  were 
trout  so  large  that  one  did  not  think  there  were 
trout  a  little  larger  farther  up.  One  baskets  a  trout 
or  so  from  this  pool,  almost  grudging  the  time,  be- 
cause it  is  simply  necessary  to  go  on  and  on.  That 
is  ambition,  that  is  human  nature.  But  what  a  glori- 
ous experience  it  is  to  follow  a  mountain  river  back 
into  the  high  mountains,  with  no  strings  to  draw 
one  back  to  camp  at  any  given  day,  to  go  back  into 
the  mountains  beyond  the  tin-can  zone — so -difficult 
a  thing  from  Panama  to  Nome  today! 

I  recall  a  little  trip  not  long  ago  where  we  fol- 
lowed a  bold  river  back  and  up  until  it  became  a 
thread  with  lakes  strung  on  it,  until  we  had  reached 
the  last  lake,  almost  up  to  the  clouds.  Such  an 
experience  is  more  than  a  mere  fishing  trip;  it  is 
close  touch  with  the  rare  and  beautiful  things,  the 
jewels,  the  condensed  wealth  of  the  world. 

Old  John  the  Ranger  knew  there  were  trout  there, 
87 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

but  it  almost  made  no  difference  when  we  looked 
out  over  the  lake  from  a  high  shore,  studying  the 
bars  for  good  fishing  places.  Old  John  grumbled 
a  bit  when  he  saw  the  head  of  the  lake  still  stained 
a  trifle  with  glacier  water. 

"Just  the  luck !"  said  he.  "I've  caught  some  old 
whales  right  up  there." 

There  were  no  tin  cans  on  this  lake.  It  has  seen 
but  few  visitors  in  all  its  many,  many  days.  Its 
shores  have  never  been  laid  out  for  the  use  of  man. 
As  beautiful  as  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of  silver, 
it  was  rough-set  in  great  bowlders  which  had  come 
down  in  the  snowslides  in  years  past.  These  rocks, 
hid  deep  in  alders  and  willows,  lay  for  half  a  mile, 
to  weary  and  entangle  the  angler — if  any  angler 
can  be  weary.  The  cover  came  so  close  to  the  water 
that  it  was  impossible  to  get  out  a  back  cast;  but 
we  hardly  looked  where  we  were  going.  Out  in  the 
lake,  beyond  reaching  distance  from  the  shore, 
the  trout  were  rising — and  there  was  no  boat  or 
raft! 

All  anglers  are  resourceful,  and  there  was  need 
of  resource  here.  We  studied  the  shore  line,  re- 
garding some  of  the  giant  bowlders,  big  as  a  church, 
which  had  rolled  on  out  into  deep  water,  and — for 
thus  does  Nature  leave  her  secrets  unguarded  ever — 
leading  out  to  one  of  these  big  bowlders  we  found 

88 


IN  THE  JEWEL  BOX 

a  sort  of  giant  stair  of  lesser  stones.  A  step  here, 
a  jump  there,  and  we  were  on  a  flat-topped  rock, 
with  room  to  cast,  and  over  twenty  feet  of  water  as 
clear  as  any  diamond  in  the  world. 

Old  John  chews  tobacco  and  fishes  with  worms. 
I  have  never  seen  on  a  human  face  an  expression 
of  greater  content  than  that  on  his  as  he  sat  down 
and,  reaching  into  his  pocket  for  a  plug  of  twist, 
bit  off  one  vast  and  blissful  chew. 

There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  trout  at  all.  Out 
beyond  us  the  transparent  water  became  less  and  less 
so,  until  it  reached  a  twilight  zone  of  translucence, 
fading  into  the  opaque.  I  cast  a  long  line  out,  as 
far  as  I  could  reach,  cast  again  and  again.  A  grand 
trout  struck  the  fly  and  I  brought  him  in  steadily, 
brilliant  and  beautiful  as  a  whole  casket  of  spilled 
jewels.  And  back  of  him  came  a  whole  procession 
of  dark,  graceful  forms,  converging  from  below, 
beyond,  and  on  every  side!  We  had  been  on  the 
rock  a  couple  of  minutes  and  here  were  fifty  trout 
in  sight!  I  need  say  little  more. 

Old  John  and  I  took  them  out  as  we  liked,  me- 
thodically, carefully,  and  reverently.  I  never  saw 
even  the  roughest  man  who  did  not  have  reverence 
for  a  trout,  and  John  was  not  one  of  the  rough.  We 
stopped  and  admired  them  now  and  then,  as  anglers 
will.  The  climax  of  our  entertainment  came  when 

89 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

old  John,  chewing  most  vigorously,  gave  an  excla- 
mation and  nodded  toward  the  arch  of  his  rod.  He 
had  on  two  trout — one  very  large,  for  he  was  using 
a  little  fly  above  his  baited  hook. 

"That  blame  thing  come  right  out  from  under 
this  rock,"  said  he,  "and  chased  my  fish;  and  then 
he  grabbed  that  little  fly — and  looky  yonder !  There's 
another  one  just  as  big.  We've  been  settin'  on  them 
all  the  while  an'  didn't  know  it !" 

Where  those  two  great  trout  came  from  we  never 
really  did  know,  but  John  landed  his  double.  And 
while  he  was  doing  so  I  cast  a  gentle  fly  over  the 
other  big  one ;  he  fastened,  and  was  ours. 

How  blissful  the  slow  and  gentle  ride  back  to 
camp  after  a  day  such  as  that,  the  old  packhorse 
squattering  along,  with  plenty  of  trout  in  the  pan- 
niers! I  presume  trout  do  have  something  to  do 
with  the  bliss  of  one's  soul  at  such  a  time,  but  none 
the  less  I  assert  that  I  caught  old  John  looking 
at  the  sunset. 

"Ain't  it  a  fine  day?"  we  said  one  to  the  other 
more  than  once,  apropos  of  nothing  in  particular 
save  that  it  had  indeed  been  a  remarkably  fine  day. 
I  do  not  now  remember  how  many  trout  we  had, 
but  I  do  remember  the  toothed,  white  sky  line  of  the 
Sierra.  And  I  know  how  green  the  pool  was  by 
our  camp,  and  how  blue  the  smoke  looked  when  we 

90 


IN  THE  JEWEL  BOX 

came  riding  down.  Apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of 
silver ! 

And  not  long  ago,  at  another  time,  it  was  in  the 
Rockies — the  Rockies  where  they  rise  high  and 
sharp  directly  from  the  plains.  Here  and  there 
from  their  tall  sides  come  down  little  streams  which, 
when  they  reach  the  lower  valleys,  wind  among  wil- 
lows, and  through  beaver  meadows,  and  sometimes 
over  gravel  bars  and  between  high  banks.  We  were 
traveling  by  motor  car  and  we  paused  at  such  a 
stream — just  big  enough  for  big  trout,  just  deep 
enough  to  be  crossed  on  the  bars  here  and  there, 
just  wide  enough  for  easy  casting  without  entangle- 
ment— the  sweetest,  decentest  trout  water  you  ever 
saw. 

"Now  if  only  there  really  were  trout,"  I  began, 
"wouldn't  it  be  ideal?" 

"Two  and  three  pounds — plenty  of  them,"  said 
Jack,  who  here  was  our  leader.  "Some  womenfolks 
caught  six  here  the  other  evening,  right  by  the 
bridge.  They  lie  right  under  the  willows,  hunting 
hoppers  now." 

It  was  late  afternoon,  but  our  party  announced 
that  we  needed  trout  for  breakfast.  Therefore, 
while  the  others  assumed  points  of  vantage  along  the 
shores,  whence  they  could  easily  offer  advice,  criti- 
cism and  derision  if  need  be,  I  got  into  my  waders, 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

strung  up  as  good  a  rod  as  the  best  maker  in  the 
world  ever  made,  appending  as  good  a  reel  as  ever 
was  made  and  using  a  tapered  leader — a  better  one 
I  never  saw.  Thereto  I  added  a  fly  as  much  re- 
sembling a  grasshopper  as  might  be. 

The  water  was  cold  when  I  stepped  in — cold,  and 
clear  as  crystal.  The  sky  was  blue,  with  some  little 
white  clouds,  and  a  strong  wind  was  coming  down 
from  the  mountains  where  the  Indians  say  the  Old 
Windmaker  lives.  I  did  not  really  much  care  wheth- 
er I  caught  any  trout  or  not.  Not  so,  however,  the 
waiters  on  the  bank,  who  were  disposed  to  be  utili- 
tarian in  their  notions! 

I  struck  one  fine  fish  and  lost  him  without  seeing 
him  at  all,  but  round  the  very  next  bend,  at  a  spot 
which  was  absolutely  ideal  in  every  regard — tell  me, 
have  you  not  almost  always  been  disappointed  with 
these  ideal  spots? — I  raised  a  regular  story-book 
trout  in  a  story-book  place.  In  these  ideal  surround-1 
ings,  whether  or  not  the  rest  of  the  picture  was 
ideal,  I  certainly  played  him  to  such  effect  that  by 
and  by  he  was  on  the  gravel  bar — two  pounds  and 
better. 

"Come  on  down  here!"  called  out  a  voice,  by 
this  time  a  trifle  more  respectful.  "They  are  jump- 
ing all  over."  This  from  the  feminine  contingent, 
who  had  always  been  a  trifle  vague  as  to  how  trout 

92 


IN  THE  JEWEL  BOX 

are  taken,  though  well  advised  as  to  how  they  are 
eaten. 

I  waded  down  to  the  head  of  a  big  semicircular 
pool.  Pound  trout,  two-pound  trout  and  pound- 
and-a-half  whitefish  were  breaking  there  on  the 
evening  feed.  From  their  position  on  the  steep 
bank,  thirty  feet  above  the  pool,  the  watchers  could 
see  every  fish  distinctly,  though  I  could  not. 

"A  little  farther  down — no,  to  the  right — no, 
this  way — there  he  is!"  Someone  on  the  bank 
was  going  to  be  a  trout  enthusiast  if  this  kept 
up.  And  it  did  keep  up  until  our  little  party 
thought  the  basket  had  enough  for  breakfast.  I 
do  not  recall  any  pleasanter  trout  party  in  all  my 
life. 

All  of  us  "true  sportsmen"  pose  a  bit.  We  like  to 
talk  about  the  beauties  of  Nature  and  pretend  that 
we  do  not  care  for  the  fish  or  birds  at  all.  That  is 
part  of  the  doctrine  of  being  a  true  sportsman, 
perhaps.  Yet  I  found  my  own  mental  impressions 
so  confused,  whether  by  the  trout  or  the  sunset, 
whether  by  the  green  of  the  willows  round  us,  or 
the  blue  of  the  sky  above  and  the  white  of  the 
glaciers  between,  that  I  am  on  the  point  of  saying 
I  cared  not  at  all  for  those  fish,  and  only  for  the 
sunset  and  the  wind — and  maybe  the  contented  look 
of  one  or  two  who  occasionally  peered  into  the 

93 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

basket  as  we  rode,  to  assure  themselves  that  the 
breakfast  was  still  there. 

And  there  was  another  time,  not  so  long  ago,  in 
another  of  our  great  wilderness  refuges.  Near  by 
the  beaten  trails  other  anglers  had  whipped  the  life 
out  of  the  stream.  One  man  offered,  however,  who 
knew  a  thing  or  two.  We  went  out  in  the  after- 
noon, five  or  six  miles,  and  caught  thirty  trout, 
some  around  a  pound.  I  was  delighted  but,  as  for 
him,  he  was  scornful. 

"You  don't  call  those  fish?"  said  he.  "You  wait. 
Tomorrow  I'll  show  you  some  real  trout." 

The  next  day  we  mounted  our  trusty  buckboard 
and  rode  to  the  end  of  the  trail.  Then  we  drove 
five  miles  farther,  up  a  canon  and  across  country 
where  a  team  and  buckboard  could  not  possibly  go 
— but  where  they  did  go,  none  the  less.  We  came 
out  on  a  strange  mountain  meadow.  For  three 
miles  our  mountain  river  flattened  and  lay  calm. 
Off  to  the  east  rose  the  notched  Absorakas. 

"There's  lots  of  'em  in  here,"  said  my  companion. 
"I  come  here  about  once  a  year.  I  don't  believe 
anybody's  been  here  this  summer.  There's  hardly 
any  little  ones  in  here  at  all.  You  won't  catch  one 
as  small  as  a  pound  in  weight." 

It  sounded  like  the  imagination  piscatorial  at  its 
best,  but  it  was  literally  true.  In  all  my  life  I  have 

94 


IN  THE  JEWEL  BOX 

never  seen  such  a  stream  as  that  for  big1  trout,  nor 
have  I  ever  seen  conditions  more  comfortable. 

Two  or  three  times  I  raised  one  big  one  which  I 
thought  was  an  earlier  acquaintance.  At  last,  from 
my  position  above,  I  could  see  him  come  up  slowly 
and  deliberately,  a  heavy,  thick-shouldered  fish; 
four  and  a  quarter  pounds  he  was.  When  I  struck 
him  I  soon  found  the  five-ounce  rod  did  not  control 
him,  and  he  walked  round  pretty  much  as  he  pleased. 

After  a  long  struggle  we  got  this  heavy,  dull  fish 
into  the  net  and  incidentally  added  to  him  the  two 
other  fish  that  may  or  may  not  have  been  the  ones 
I  had  raised  on  the  same  bank  previously — at  least, 
we  declared  they  were.  And  when  we  went  to  camp 
for  lunch  and  cleaned  up  our  trout,  we  found  what 
had  made  our  big  trout  so  thoughtful.  He  had  that 
morning  eaten  a  bullfrog  a  little  longer  than  my 
hand !  I  have  sometimes  heard  it  said  that  trout  do 
not  care  for  frogs. 

When  we  lifted  our  box  into  the  buckboard  that 
evening  it  was  heavy  with  trout,  very  heavy.  Per- 
haps— for  one  ought  to  be  honest  in  such  matters — 
the  heaviness  of  the  box  may  have  left  my  reason 
not  wholly  calm  and  dispassionate;  but,  though  I 
cannot  swear  whether  we  had  twenty-four  or 
twenty-six  trout,  I  can  swear  that  never  was  moun- 
tain wind  sweeter,  never  was  mountain  valley  more 

95 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

beautiful,  never  was  sky  more  blue  or  mountains 
more  wholly  delectable  than  those. 

They  are  our  jewels,  these  things  set  apart.  Some- 
times— unless  I  happen  to  be  broke  at  the  time — 
I  am  ready  to  say  that  saving  the  last  cent  you  can 
is  not  all  there  is  to  life.  Sometimes,  especially 
when  far  back  and  high  up  in  the  wilderness,  I  am 
ready  to  say  the  old  Regent  was  not  so  far  wrong. 
There  are  a  few  things  a  great  and  rich  people  can 
afford  just  to  lock  up  and  lay  away.  You  do  not 
look  at  a  jewel  box  every  day — only  once  in  a  while ; 
but  it  is  comfortable  to  know  that  you  have  jewels 
on  the  ice. 


VI 


THE  GREAT-GAME  FIELDS  OF  THE 
WORLD 


VI 
THE    GREAT-GAME    FIELDS    OF    THE    WORLD 

PERHAPS  you  paid  a  hundred  and  fifty,  two 
hundred,  or  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for 
the  grizzly-bear  rug  in  your  den.  If  you  have 
a  perfect  tiger  rug  in  the  reception  hall  your  friends 
will  know  you  once  had  at  least  five  hundred  dollars 
or  else  your  credit  was  good.    Try  to  kill  your  own 
grizzly  or  your  own  tiger,  and  you  will  think  that 
the  only  time  you  ever  solved  the  high-cost-of -living 
puzzle  was  when  you  bought  the  skins  and  did  not 
try  to  kill  the  animals  at  first  hand. 

That  you  could  today  take  a  thousand  dollars 
and  go  out  and  kill  a  grizzly  bear  with  your  own 
rifle  is  very  doubtful.  Very  likely  you  might  be 
obliged  to  make  several  trips  before  you  found  one. 
Certainly  you  would  have  to  go  a  long  distance  and 
outfit  at  considerable  expense.  A  friend  of  the 
writer  got  a  grizzly  in  Canada  last  spring.  It  re- 
quired a  forty-days'  trip  with  a  pack  train.  The 
betting  is  a  thousand  to  one  that  you  will  never  kill 
a  grizzly  inside  the  United  States.  There  are  a  few 

99 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

left  but  not  many,  and  all  are  rather  highly  trained 
in  suspiciousness  and  resourcefulness.  Colorado 
now  has  a  bill  before  it  looking  toward  the  protec- 
tion of  the  grizzly  bear.  All  the  old  bear  stories  of 
history  used  to  teach  us  that  the  grizzly  bear  was 
the  one  creature  in  the  world  which  could  take  care 
of  himself,  but  he  could  not.  Today  the  grizzly  is 
one  of  the  most  timid  of  wild  animals,  one  of  the 
least  dangerous,  and  one  of  the  most  expensive. 

As  for  the  cost  of  a  lion  or  tiger  hunt,  it  runs 
into  so  much  money  that  the  average  American 
hunter  cannot  figure  on  it  at  all.  The  successful 
great-game  hunter  of  today  must  have  not  only 
sporting  qualities  but  financial  resources  to  back 
him  up. 

Where  are  the  great-game  countries  of  the  world 
today  ?  This  question  has  been  much  to  the  fore  of 
late,  for  within  the  last  five  years  there  have  been 
more  great-game  trophies  brought  to  America  than 
in  any  fifty  years  of  the  earlier  history  of  this  coun- 
try. More  and  more  you  hear  about  some  of  our 
best  people  who  have  felt  it  incumbent  on  them  to 
go  out  and  do  something  sporting  in  the  way  of  big 
game.  The  heads  of  the  mountain  sheep,  of  the  elk, 
of  the  many  beautiful  African  antelopes,  of  the 
great  Cape  buflfalo,  the  skins  of  this  or  that  animal 
known  or  unknown  to  the  public — these  things  you 

100 


,  ."•••'.  .:  :*<  *''. 
•<  ^ 

r/i  :,•  •» 

*sr>      •  ..    ••  -. 


o 

- 


GREAT-GAME  FIELDS 

see  more  and  more  about  you  in  the  homes  of  your 
wealthy  friends.  They  have  attached  to  them  cu- 
rious stories,  and  all  these  represent  definitely  the 
swift  changes  in  the  sporting  world. 

You  may  mark  almost  all  of  North  America — or 
at  least  most  of  the  United  States — off  the  map  now 
as  big-game  country.  The  best  of  our  best  people 
no  longer  hunt  in  the  United  States.  Of  course,  we 
still  kill  a  great  many  deer  and  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  elk,  once  in  a  while  a  mountain  sheep,  and 
rarely  a  good  bear  in  one  or  another  part  of  the 
United  States.  To  use  even  these  dwindling  re- 
sources in  a  big-game  hunt  is  rather  an  expensive 
business  today.  We  used  to  figure  it  at  about  fifteen 
dollars  a  day,  average  cost  for  each  person,  when 
using  a  pack  train.  Today  you  would  better  push 
the  cost  up  to  twenty  or  twenty-five  dollars  a  day 
for  each  man  of  the  party. 

A  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  dollars  for  a  good 
head  is  not  thought  very  expensive  by  some  of  our 
best  people  who  hunt  in  America,  though  often 
more  success  is  bought  for  less  money  by  those  who 
know  the  how  and  where  of  it.  You  can  take  five 
thousand  dollars  and  go  to  Africa,  or,  if  you  wish 
to  take  along  a  moving-picture  outfit — which,  as  we 
say  in  Chicago,  is  quite  au  fait  today — you  can  run 
the  expenses  up  to  thirty-five  thousand  for  a  long 

101 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

safari  and  not  attract  a  great  deal  of  attention 
among  our  very  best  people. 

British  East  Africa  for  some  years  has  been  very 
much  in  the  public  eye  as  a  great-game  country. 
They  have  taken  good  care  of  that  country,  have 
established  high  game  licenses  and  more  than  one 
big-game  preserve;  yet,  none  the  less,  returning 
sportsmen  say  that  game  is  harder  to  get  there  now 
than  it  was  a  while  ago  and  that  good  specimens  are 
rare.  In  short,  British  East  Africa,  far  away  as  it 
seems,  is  relatively  already  on  the  point  of  being 
pretty  well  shot  out — rather  an  extraordinary  thing 
to  believe  and  yet  very  true.  The  European  war  has 
taken  away  a  great  deal  of  the  sporting  travel  which 
has  been  going  to  the  country  accessible  via  Nairobi, 
so  that  within  the  next  two  years  we  may  look  to  a 
great  increase  of  game  in  those  fairly  well-known 
fields. 

German  East  Africa  is  a  better  game  field  than 
British  East  Africa,  but  is  much  less  known  and 
more  difficult  of  access.  In  general  it  is  a  certain 
proposition  that  if  you  are  a  good  shot  and  have 
enough  money,  you  can  go  easily  to  one  or  the  other 
of  the  East  African  districts  and  get  yourself  lion, 
buffalo,  elephant  and  rhino,  as  well  as  countless 
specimens  of  the  beautiful  African  antelope.  That 
is  not  so  good  a  hunting  country  as  Lewis  and  Clark 

102 


GREAT-GAME  FIELDS 

found  in  the  American  West  a  hundred  years  ago. 
What  will  it  be  a  hundred  years  hence?  Will  not 
its  story  be  the  same  as  that  which  the  country  of 
Lewis  and  Clark  shows  today? 

Most  of  us  are  obliged  to  do  our  big-game  hunt- 
ing closer  at  home,  so  we  accept  the  compromise 
forced  on  us  by  civilization  and  meekly  go  for  a 
rather  tame  big-game  hunt  to  Wyoming,  Ontario, 
Nova  Scotia,  or  New  Brunswick,  where  we  can  find 
elk  or  moose,  caribou  or  deer.  Not  so  long  ago  one 
could  go  to  Manitoba  and  get  not  only  moose  but 
elk ;  but  the  elk  of  that  country,  as  well  as  of  North- 
ern Minnesota,  are  now  almost  a  negligible  quan- 
tity in  sport  and  ought  not  to  be  pursued  too  closely. 

In  the  Canadian  Rockies  there  are  a  few  moun- 
tain sheep  where  the  Indians  have  not  killed  them 
off,  an  occasional  grizzly,  and,  in  certain  districts, 
rather  an  abundance  of  white  goats.  In  our  own 
Rockies  there  is  a  fairly  sure  chance  to  get  an  elk 
— probably  with  nothing  like  the  sort  of  antlers 
which  could  be  found  twenty  years  ago.  Not  even 
these  dwindling  antlers  would  be  available,  except 
for  the  great-game  preserve  of  Yellowstone  Park.  A 
few  states  still  allow  mountain  sheep  to  be  shot,  and 
in  different  parts  of  the  Rockies  blacktail  or  mule 
deer  are  fairly  abundant.  In  the  Cascade  system, 
as  we  may  call  the  upthrust  of  our  mountains  which 

103 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

run  up  into  British  Columbia  north  of  the  line;  or 
in  the  Selkirks  and  upper  Rockies,  there  are — es- 
pecially in  the  western  ranges — some  mountain  sheep 
and  a  good  many  goats,  but  very  rarely  a  grizzly 
now.  The  crossing  of  that  country  by  the  Grand 
Trunk  Pacific  has  or  soon  will  put  an  end  to  cer- 
tainty of  great  sport.  The  local  guides  and  out- 
fitters, of  course,  will  hardly  agree  with  this  state- 
ment, though  it  is  a  very  fair  one. 

The  best  outdoor  country  and  the  best  big-game 
country  the  world  ever  saw  ran  along  the  eastern 
slope  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  in  the  foothills  or 
the  edge  of  the  high  plains,  from  Alberta  south  to 
Arizona.  That  country  is  pretty  well  exhausted 
now.  There  are  a  very  few  antelopes  in  Saskatche- 
wan, and  from  there  south  to  Arizona  there  is  not 
one  state  where  an  antelope  can  be  or  at  least  ought 
to  be  killed  today.  The  species  is  passing  away  so 
rapidly  that  we  ought  not  to  kill  antelopes  at  all 
for  a  long  time. 

In  Arizona,  in  the  remote  desert  regions,  and  in 
a  part  of  desert  California,  there  are  a  few  ante- 
lopes left — not  many.  There  are  about  twelve  in 
the  area  close  to  the  petrified  forest,  between  Ada- 
mana  and  Holbrook.  There  are  about  a  dozen  near 
the  mouth  of  Chevelon  Creek,  near  Winslow.  South- 
west of  Winslow,  about  forty-five  miles  from  the 

104 


GREAT-GAME  FIELDS 

railroad,  there  are  two  or  three  bunches,  making 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  head.  Six  years  ago 
there  was  a  good  band  between  Williams  and  Sun- 
set Pass,  but  the  Navajo  Indians  got  among  them 
and  killed  all  but  about  thirty  head.  Between  Wil- 
liams and  the  Grand  Canon  there  is  a  band  of  about 
ten  and  about  that  number  have  been  seen  between 
Ash  fork  and  Prescott.  There  are  about  a  dozen  not 
far  from  Tombstone,  but  in  this  bunch  the  bucks 
outnumber  the  does.  Arizona  does  not  very  fully 
protect  any  of  her  game  against  miners,  and,  more 
especially,  against  Indians.  There  are  a  few 
grizzlies  in  a  restricted  part  of  Arizona.  The  ante- 
lope, as  may  be  seen  from  the  foregoing  figures, 
ought  not  any  longer  to  be  considered  an  object 
of  sport. 

There  are  a  few  elk  in  the  Mogollon  Mountains 
of  Arizona,  which  were  imported  from  Yellowstone 
Park,  about  eighty  having  survived  the  trip.  It  is 
a  question  whether  they  will  make  a  good  increase, 
for  in  all  likelihood  they  will  be  killed  off  as  rapidly 
as  they  multiply. 

There  are  a  few  mountain  sheep  in  the  desert 
country  of  California,  and  in  the  extreme  south  of 
Arizona,  and  across  the  line  in  Mexico.  South  of 
A  jo  Valley,  on  the  Mexican  side,  there  is  some 
old  volcanic  country  where  there  are  several  bands 

105 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

of  mountain  sheep  of  the  desert  variety.  Not  many 
of  these  ought  to  be  killed.  Since  information  re- 
garding all  these  remote  districts  is  so  accurate, 
you  can  see  what  sport  is  today.  You  can  no  longer 
stroll  out  before  breakfast  and  kill  your  mutton  or 
your  antelope  venison. 

The  great  state  of  California  once  swarmed  with 
big  game.  Today  deer  are  almost  the  only  big  game 
you  can  find.  There  are  a  few  dwarf  elk  left  in 
the  Coast  Range  and  an  attempt  has  been  made  to 
transplant  them  into  the  Sierra.  The  great  species 
of  the  Roosevelt  Elk  in  Northern  California  has  a 
few  members  left.  The  giant  grizzly  bear  of  Cali- 
fornia, one  of  the  most  splendid  animals  of  the 
world,  might  as  well  be  called  extinct  today.  There 
may  be  two  or  three  grizzlies — perhaps  none  at  all — 
left  in  Siskiyou  County.  Not  one  has  been  seen 
for  years.  There  are  a  few  black  bears  and  some 
mountain  lions  in  the  Sierra,  but  not  enough  to  in- 
vite a  big-game  trip  by  an  Eastern  man. 

Colorado  is  no  longer  a  field  for  grizzlies ;  nor  are 
there  black  bears  enough  to  be  worth  while,  nor  elk, 
nor  mountain  sheep.  Black-tailed  deer  may  be 
called  the  one  game  animal  to  invite  the  sportsman 
into  that  tremendous  mountain  region,  once  one  of 
the  most  wonderful  game  districts  of  the  world. 
Parts  of  Montana  and  Wyoming  are  better,  because 

106 


GREAT-GAME  FIELDS 

they  are  close  to  Yellowstone  Park.  The  country 
below  and  west  of  the  park  is  a  good  game  district 
even  yet  in  the  fall,  but  the  demands  on  it  are  ex- 
treme. 

Suppose  we  forsake  the  Rockies,  the  Sierras,  the 
Cascades,  and  even  the  Canadian  Rockies  and  the 
Selkirks,  as  game  fields  today,  and  pass  on  to  the 
extreme  north,  which  now  is  beginning  to  open  up 
to  travel.  For  two  thousand  miles  north  of  Edmon- 
ton one  will  be  in  moose  country  occasionally — good 
districts  and  bad — but  one  might  make  a  trip  there 
without  success,  for  there  is  an  extreme  amount 
of  country  and  some  of  it  does  not  abound  in  game. 
One  must  know  the  district  and  the  seasons  for  the 
game.  Transportation  is  meager  and  outfitting  is 
difficult.  The  routine  trip  down  the  Mackenzie 
River  is  not  one  to  invite  the  big-game  hunter.  Side 
trips,  which  take  time,  must  be  made,  and  for  these 
the  fur-trade  steamers  cannot  stop. 

On  the  pass  of  the  Rockies  between  the  mouth 
of  the  Mackenzie  River  and  the  head  of  Porcupine 
River  there  is  a  district,  very  little  visited,  where 
there  are  mountain  sheep.  It  is  a  two-year  proposi- 
tion to  make  a  good  hunt  in  that  region  and  it  is 
too  difficult  to  warrant  the  undertaking,  though 
that  is  one  of  the  least-visited  parts  of  this  continent. 

At  the  head  of  the  Black  River,  one  of  the  Yukon 
107 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

tributaries — say,  from  fifty  to  seventy-five  miles 
south  of  Rampart  House  on  the  Porcupine — there 
is  good  moose  country — big  moose.  Fifty  miles 
north  of  Rampart  House  the  caribou  come  in  the 
fall.  One  cannot  very  well  go  into  that  country 
and  make  a  hunt  and  come  out  the  same  season 
unless  one  could  go  up  the  Porcupine  in  a  good 
power  boat  from  Fort  Yukon.  There  was  no  such 
boat  there  two  years  ago. 

There  are  a  number  of  streams  going  down  into 
the  Yukon,  up  which  a  hunter  can  go  by  boat,  with 
the  certainty  of  finding  big  game  if  he  knows  his 
country  and  has  the  time  and  the  money.  Toward 
the  headwaters  of  the  Stewart,  up  the  Pelly  and 
its  tributaries,  more  especially  round  the  head  of 
the  Macmillan  River,  there  is  good  big-game  coun- 
try for  mountain  sheep  of  two  or  three  varieties, 
caribou,  good  moose,  and  sometimes  good  grizzlies ; 
but  it  will  surprise  you,  remote  as  all  this  district 
sounds,  to  hear  that  the  Macmillan  country  is  often 
visited,  and  that  some  years  ago  the  trappers  were 
supposed  to  have  taken  the  cream  of  the  grizzly- 
bear  product. 

One  of  the  best  big-game  regions  on  this  continent 
is  around  Mount  McKinley  in  Alaska.  The  hunter 
can  go  in  via  Fairbanks,  where  he  can  get  outfit  and 
guides.  It  is  not  a  picnic  to  make  any  of  these 

106 


GREAT-GAME  FIELDS 

Alaska  trips,  or  any  of  the  yet  longer  ones  required 
for  the  Northwest  Territory,  deeper  into  the  con- 
tinent. One  must  plan  at  least  six  months  ahead, 
for  transportation  is  a  desperate  thing  in  that  far 
country. 

The  Kenai  Peninsula,  of  Alaska,  was  one  of  the 
most  splendid  game  districts  of  all  the  world  not 
many  years  ago.  Big-game  hunters  of  all  the  sport- 
ing races  of  the  world  went  there  and  shot  the  coun- 
try so  hard  that  at  length  the  United  States  had 
to  put  a  ban  on  the  export  of  moose  heads  and  re- 
strict the  killing  of  game  very  sharply.  There  is 
game  left  in  the  Kenai  country  now,  but  you  can  no 
longer  call  it  one  of  the  cinches.  The  finest  moose 
heads  in  all  the  world  came  out  of  the  Kenai  Penin- 
sula— moose  that  would  make  the  best  product  of 
New  Brunswick  or  Ontario  look  like  thirty  cents. 
They  also  make  your  pocketbook  look  like  thirty 
cents  today  when  you  go  in  after  them. 

Still,  you  can  get  good  moose  in  many  parts  of 
Alaska,  and  also  the  white  or  Ball's  sheep,  or  the 
black  sheep,  known  as  Stone's  sheep,  as  well  as  the 
ordinary  Rocky  Mountain  bighorn.  Alaska  still 
may  be  called  a  great-game  country.  The  Yukon 
even  yet  is  a  highway  into  splendid  game  fields ;  but 
every  mining  camp,  such  as  Dawson,  Iditarod,  Fair- 
banks, Ruby  City,  Circle  City — wherever  miners  go 

109 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

— soon  becomes  simply  a  center  of  a  shot-out  game 
field.  Freight  is  high  in  that  country;  beef  is  un- 
known. The  big  game  of  the  country  is  used  as 
food,  and  the  market  hunters  soon  clean  it  out  for 
fifty  or  a  hundred  miles  around  any  settlement  of 
consequence ;  so  you  cannot  so  to  Alaska  now  with 
the  certainty  of  an  easy,  pleasant,  and  inexpensive 
big-game  hunt.  You  must  go  "a  little  farther  on." 
Indeed,  all  over  the  world  you  hear  that  same  old 
story,  "a  little  farther  on" — even  in  East  Africa. 

The  interior  of  Alaska  is  a  pleasanter  hunting 
country,  though  mountainous  and  difficult,  than  is 
the  coast  country.  There  is  no  more  difficult  or 
unpleasant  hunting  country  in  the  world  than  the 
coast  regions  of  Alaska,  where  it  rains  all  the  time 
and  where  the  forests  are  dense,  damp,  and  nearly 
impenetrable.  In  this  vast  region,  along  the  bold 
rivers  that  carry  salmon,  not  only  near  the  mainland 
but  on  many  of  the  great  islands  of  the  coast,  there 
are  still  numbers  of  the  great  brown  bear  of  Alaska. 
Up  the  Stickeen  and  the  Iskoot  Rivers  you  still  can 
get  mountain  sheep  and  grizzlies  in  the  wet  country. 
It  is  a  difficult  and  expensive  trip  to  try  to  get  a 
good  bear,  as  you  may  find  for  yourself. 

On  Kadiak  Island,  farther  north,  the  giant  bears 
have  been  pretty  well  exterminated,  and  the  great 
volcanic  eruption  of  a  few  years  ago  put  them  still 

no 


GREAT-GAME  FIELDS 

more  to  the  bad.  The  Alaskan  Peninsula,  across 
from  Kadiak,  was  a  splendid  country  for  caribou 
and  the  giant  brown  bear  until  very  recently.  The 
volcano  did  not  help  any.  Those  great  bears  were 
shot  down  remorselessly  by  hunting  parties  from  all 
over  the  world.  The  species  is  not  extinct  but  it  is 
far  more  difficult  to  make  a  good  hunt  there  now 
than  it  was  even  five  years  ago. 

If  you  have  a  private  yacht  of  your  own  and  can 
afford  to  go  out  for  a  cruise  of  two  or  three  years 
along  the  coast  of  Alaska,  round  Dutch  Harbor  and 
north  of  the  Aleutian  Islands,  you  can  surely  get 
big  brown  bears — all  you  want  of  them.  You  can 
even  push  up  far  enough  north  to  get  a  polar  bear, 
which,  for  the  average  man,  is  out  of  the  question 
unless  he  has  time  to  take  a  voyage  on  a  whaler  or 
unless  he  is  located  at  some  point  within  touch  of  the 
Arctic  Ocean. 

While  you  are  about  it,  with  your  private  yacht — 
which,  of  course,  is  a  mere  bagatelle  for  you  and 
me  and  others  of  our  best  people — you  might  as  well 
go  over  to  Siberia.  In  that  country  you  can  get, 
perhaps,  one  of  the  great  trophies  of  the  world — the 
mountain  tiger  of  Siberia  and  upper  China.  Per- 
haps you  have  seen  one  of  those  thick-furred  robes, 
beautifully  striped  and  much  superior  to  the  tiger  of 
India  in  beauty.  Personally  I  believe  I  would  as 

in 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

lief  bag  one  of  those  tigers  as  any  other  trophy  in 
the  world,  and  I  have  often  planned  to  make  that 
trip,  which  ought  not  to  cost  more  than  the  mere 
trifle  of  ten  or  twenty  thousand  dollars. 

There  are  other  trophies,  however,  which  in  the 
eye  of  the  big-game  sharp  outweigh  perhaps  even 
the  best  of  the  Asiatic  tigers.  The  giant  mountain 
sheep  of  Tibet,  Ovis  poll,  and  that  other  great  sheep 
known  as  Ovis  ammon,  would  rank  in  the  belief  of 
the  experts  as  the  capital  trophies  of  all  the  world. 
They  come  just  a  trifle  high.  Of  course  you  are 
now  getting  into  trips — when  you  mention  the  polar 
bear,  the  moose  of  the  Northwest  Territory,  and  the 
great  trophies  of  Asia — which  mean  a  year  or  two 
devoted  to  the  single  purpose  of  sporting.  Usually 
the  boss  does  not  wish  to  let  us  off  for  so  long  a 
vacation,  and  the  average  salary  of  fifteen  dollars  a 
week,  which  represents  the  average  income  of  the 
average  American  citizen,  does  not  go  so  far  as  it 
ought  when  spread  out  over  a  proposition  of  this 
kind.  Big-game  hunting  today  is  a  question  of  time 
and  money.  Fifteen  dollars  a  week  and  two  weeks' 
vacation  a  year  do  not  get  us  much  in  the  way  of 
sheep  and  tigers. 

Closer  at  home  we  still  have  some  countries  that, 
for  the  boy  or  young  man  of  today,  must  fulfill  all 

the  feasible  dreams  of  wild  life  in  the  wilderness. 

112 


GREAT-GAME  FIELDS 

Texas,  for  instance,  was  once  a  wonderful  game 
state;  it  had  buffaloes,  antelopes,  bears,  lions  and 
deer.  Today  you  may  say  it  has  deer. 

Closer  to  the  north,  and  yet  less  known,  there 
lay  until  within  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago  what  I 
believe  to  have  been  the  most  typical  wilderness  of 
the  United  States — the  so-called  Delta  country  of 
Mississippi.  In  this  dense  canebrake  and  hardwood 
region  there  was  a  country,  fifty  miles  across,  where, 
when  I  knew  it,  there  was  not  a  house.  It  was  full 
of  black  bears,  deer,  turkeys,  and  panthers.  Today 
the  railroads  crisscross  it.  Its  black  soil  is  raising 
crops.  The  old  bear  packs  are  now  scattered.  It  is 
an  agricultural  region  today  and  game  is  but  an 
incident  there.  On  one  hunt  there  we  once  killed  ten 
black  bears  in  eight  days.  If  you  got  one  now  you 
would  be  lucky. 

Still,  we  have  left  the  tracked  and  tabulated  wil- 
derness of  Maine,  New  York,  Michigan,  Wisconsin 
and  Minnesota — that  pinewood  country  which  lies 
along  the  south  edge  of  the  Great  Lakes  waterway. 
This  is  rather  old  settled  country  and,  in  some  part, 
it  has  learned  the  lesson  of  game  supply. 

Perhaps  you  did  not  know  that  Connecticut  is 
one  of  the  best  deer  countries  in  America — because 
deer  are  protected  there.  Vermont  was  once  shot 
out,  but  a  few  years  ago  that  little  state  turned  out 

"3 


eighteen  hundred  deer  killed  in  one  season,  more 
than  would  have  been  possible  fifteen  years  before. 
There  is  more  game  in  New  Brunswick  than  there 
was  forty  years  ago.  Pennsylvania  is  something  of 
a  bear  country  yet,  and  there  are  very  many  more 
bears  in  Pennsylvania  than  in  Colorado — which 
perhaps  you  did  not  know. 

Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  there  are  at  least 
as  many  bears  killed  east  of  the  Mississippi  annually 
as  there  are  in  all  the  greater  country  west  of  it, 
and  more  than  twice  as  many  deer  I  You  have  been 
thinking  of  Texas,  Montana,  Wyoming,  Colorado 
— the  Great  West — as  the  place  where  you  were  go- 
ing to  make  your  big-game  hunt  when  you  got  the 
price.  You  can  make  it  with  a  better  prospect  of 
success,  albeit  in  tamer  fashion,  nearer  home.  Did 
you  know  that? 

Yes,  it  is  true  that  the  future  of  sport  is  in  what 
we  might  call  the  second-growth  stage.  Perhaps 
you  have  seen  grandpa's  wood  lot,  with  the  old  hick- 
ory stumps  standing  in  it.  Here  and  there  are  some 
small  trees.  Those  are  the  second-growth  hickory 
trees.  Our  only  hope  for  sport  in  America,  or  timber 
in  America,  is  in  this  second-growth  crop.  With  in- 
credible speed  and  with  unspeakable  remorselessness 
we  have  already  reached  the  second-growth  crop 
of  practically  all  raw  resources  in  America. 

114 


GREAT-GAME  FIELDS 

Suppose,  after  having  thus  casually  strolled  across 
the  world  in  pursuit  of  a  big-game  trophy,  we  pass 
into  the  South  Sea  Islands  country  and  stop,  say, 
at  New  Zealand.  It  may  seem  strange  to  you  to 
hear  that  in  case  you  really  need  a  good  elk  head  or 
a  specimen  of  red  deer,  New  Zealand  might  be  the 
best  place  for  you  to  go;  because,  if  you  are  at  all 
posted  on  your  natural  history,  you  will  know  that 
there  were  no  land  animals  at  all  native  to  New 
Zealand,  except  two  species  of  bats — and  bats  are 
not  big  game,  outside  Broadway. 

In  1862  the  gentlemen  of  New  Zealand  concluded 
to  see  what  they  could  do  by  way  of  establishing 
sport  on  that  continent.  At  that  time  they  imported 
red  deer  from  Great  Britain.  In  one  district  now 
there  are  ten  thousand  of  those  deer,  fine  specimens, 
and  a  few  of  them  are  now  allowed  to  be  killed 
annually.  In  one  district  there  are  said  to  be  forty 
thousand  fallow  deer,  also  the  product  of  a  little 
stock  imported  from  the  British  Isles.  Black-tailed 
deer  and  elk,  imported  from  America,  are  also  thriv- 
ing equally  well  in  New  Zealand.  In  short,  New 
Zealand  knew  the  value  of  big  game ;  Americans  did 
not. 

The  rainbow  trout  was  introduced  into  New 
Zealand  from  California  in  the  early  eighties,  and 
today  New  Zealand  is  the  best  trout  region  of  all 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

the  world.  The  biggest  rainbows  are  no  longer  to 
be  had  in  California,  Oregon,  or  Washington;  you 
must  go  to  New  Zealand  for  them.  You  can  get 
them  up  to  twenty-five,  forty,  and  fifty  pounds  in 
New  Zealand,  with  fine  sport  in  bold  and  rushing 
rivers  which  once  ran  fishless  to  the  sea.  In  Roto- 
rua  Lake,  in  the  Auckland  country,  an  average  of 
four  tons  of  rainbow  trout  a  day  has  been  taken  in 
season.  As  high  as  fourteen  tons  have  been  taken 
in  one  day.  There  was  not  a  rainbow  there  in  1880. 
The  problem  was  perfectly  simple  when  treated  on 
a  businesslike  basis.  Our  own  problem,  also,  is  per- 
fectly simple  if  we  care  to  treat  it  on  a  business 
basis. 

I  have  before  me,  as  I  write,  the  report  of  the 
gamewarden  of  California.  It  is,  in  large  part,  a 
record  of  what  does  not  exist  today  but  what  did 
exist  ten,  twenty,  or  thirty  years  ago.  Yet  the 
warden  of  that  state  says,  with  a  certain  pride,  that 
the  funds  raised  by  shooting  and  fishing  licenses  in 
that  state  are  all  applied  to  game  protection.  In 
short,  he  has  the  same  point  of  view  we  have  in  all 
our  states — that  sportsmen  only  are  to  pay  for  sport. 
Yet  we  have  established  as  a  part  of  our  Constitu- 
tion, that  there  shall  be  no  class  legislation.  Is  it 
not  perfectly  easy  to  see  the  conflict  of  terms  here? 

Though  it  is  true  that  market  shooting  ought  not 
116 


GREAT-GAME  FIELDS 

to  be  tolerated  in  any  corner  of  the  world  today — 
no  more  than  unrestricted  killing  of  poultry  ought 
to  be  tolerated  if  there  were  no  systematic  increase 
provided  for — none  the  less,  it  seems  to  be  the 
broader  and  more  businesslike  point  of  view  to  wipe 
out  the  whole  theory  that  sport  is  for  sportsmen 
only,  that  game  is  for  special  classes  alone.  The 
truth  is,  we  ought  to  regard  all  these  great  resources 
of  a  country  as  things  to  be  husbanded  and  in- 
creased. We  ought  not  to  dig  out  the  roots  of  the 
trees  in  grandfather's  wood  lot,  but  give  others  a 
chance  to  grow. 

The  natural  productiveness  of  the  world  is  as 
great  now  as  it  ever  was.  Great  game  will  take 
care  of  itself  now  as  well  as  it  ever  did,  and  there 
is  still  plenty  of  room.  The  story  of  New  Zealand 
is  proof  of  that.  On  a  second-growth  basis  we 
can  have  game  all  through  the  United  States — all 
over  the  world — just  as  quickly  as  we  want  it  and 
will  provide  for  it  on  a  business  basis.  And  there 
are  few  better  or  bigger  businesses  in  which  a  nation, 
a  state,  a  county,  or  a  district  could  be  engaged. 

Not  long  ago,  at  a  bankers'  banquet  in  Chicago, 
attended  by  gentlemen  supposed  to  be  of  the  highest 
and  best  type  of  citizenship,  there  were  offered  on 
the  menu,  as  one  item,  Jumbo  Snowbirds.  These, 
of  course,  were  nothing  but  quail,  which,  knowingly, 

117 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

were  served  illegally  at  that  date — as  witness  the 
name  under  which  they  were  offered;  but  out  of  a 
hundred  of  those  gentlemen,  each  of  whom  ate  his 
quail,  I  did  not  hear  one  word  of  protest  or  even  of 
comment.  This  industrial  waste  was  accepted  by 
all  those  able  bankers  as  a  matter  of  course. 

At  a  banquet  a  year  ago  in  one  of  the  greatest 
hotels  in  Chicago  six  hundred  quail  were  served,  it 
was  alleged,  illegally.  At  that  banquet  six  hundred 
of  the  best  business  men  of  Chicago  sat  down.  At 
another  banquet  in  that  same  hotel,  another  gather- 
ing of  good  business  men,  there  were  five  hundred 
alleged  illegal  quail  served.  And  yet  we  ask  why 
our  game  is  disappearing !  It  is  because  we  are  not 
business  men,  even  when  we  banquet  in  that  dis- 
guise. 

Further  this  deponent  saith  not.  Our  own  great- 
game  fields  lie  reaped  but  not  resown.  That  is 
waste !  That  is  not  being  forehanded.  That  is  ruin. 


VII 

THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  certain  tender- 
foot of  the  city  of  Philadelphia  who  made  a 
pilgrimage  to  Montana  for  the  sake  of  his 
health.  He  thought  he  had  consumption,  but  it  was 
only  pie ;  so  he  recovered  promptly  and  in  due  time 
returned  to  the  ancestral  halls  well  bronzed  and 
hearty.  He  brought  with  him  certain  heads  of  wild 
animals,  trophies  of  his  prowess,  and  withal  stories 
to  fit  the  heads. 

"These  elk  antlers,"  he  explained,  referring  to  a 
fine  pair  of  the  collection,  "are  shed  every  year. 
They  are  so  large  and  heavy  that  you  would  not 
think,  to  look  at  them,  that  the  animal  grows  a  fresh 
set  every  year."  This  was  the  truth,  but  it  was  not 
received  as  such. 

"My  son,"  said  his  good  old  Quaker  mother,  "I 
have  raised  thee  to  tell  the  truth,  and  thee  has  always 
been  a  good  boy ;  but  now  I  plainly  see  thee  is  lying 
to  thy  old  mother.  It  would  be  impossible  for  the 
elk  to  raise  such  horns  every  year ;  besides,  it  would 
be  a  waste." 

121 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

True,  it  would  seem  a  prodigious  waste,  the  waste 
of  Nature  with  her  wild  life  in  America;  but  Amer- 
ica has  from  the  beginning  been  a  land  not  only  of 
plenty  but  of  waste,  of  utter,  awesome  waste  in  all 
things.  We  are  rich  and  careless.  So  is  Nature. 

One  day  not  long  ago  some  farmers  near  Castalia, 
Ohio,  dug  into  a  curious  willow-grown  mound  which 
had  long  been  known  in  the  little  valley  of  the  Cas- 
talia trout  stream.  They  found  a  mass  of  jumbled 
elk  horns,  yards  in  extent,  embracing  some  scores 
of  horns  in  all.  These  had  been  heaped  up  and 
buried  there  by  some  earlier  men,  white  or  red,  and 
the  moisture  of  their  covering  had  preserved  them. 
By  all  rights  they  should  have  disappeared  years 
ago  in  the  mysterious  fashion  in  which  Nature  takes 
care  of  the  shed  antlers  of  all  the  deer  family. 
Nature  is  scavenger  for  her  own  waste.  She  sets 
squirrels  and  porcupines  to  gnawing  at  shed  deer 
horns,  sets  the  elements  to  dissolving  them  and  the 
moss  and  leaves  to  hiding  them,  trying  to  cover  up 
the  truth  as  to  her  own  wastefulness.  Otherwise  we 
could  walk  across  the  continent  today  on  elk  horns. 

The  average  citizen  of  today,  studying  the  reports 
of  rust  on  the  wheat  crop  of  the  West,  or  the  short- 
age of  cotton  in  the  South,  does  not  reflect  that  a 
few  years  ago  wild  animals  roamed  where  crops  now 
grow.  There  were  elk  in  the  state  of  Michigan  in 

122 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

1871,  and  no  doubt  later.  These  animals  existed  on 
what  is  known  as  the  Saginaw  "Thumb,"  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  state.  Elk  antlers  have  been 
dug  out  of  the  marsh  at  the  foot  of  Lake  Winne- 
bago,  in  Wisconsin,  though  the  last  elk  in  Wisconsin 
was  killed  about  forty  years  ago — having  the  hill 
where  the  deed  was  done  named  after  him,  by  the 
way.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  during  the  Civil  War 
there  were  great  herds  of  elk  around  Spirit  Lake,  in 
northwestern  Iowa,  and  that  long  after  the  Civil 
War  farmers  chased  buffalo  in  central  Minnesota. 
For  that  matter  there  were  wild  buffalo  alive  in  the 
Panhandle  of  Texas  the  year  before  the  World's 
Fair  at  Chicago.  Today  there  is  no  buffalo  range 
because  there  are  no  buffalo.  The  elk  range  is  re- 
stricted to  small  and  lessening  areas  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains — localities  of  chief  interest  to  pie-suf- 
ferers whose  physicians  prescribe  big-game  shooting, 
but  who  do  not  know  how  scarce  our  big  game  has 
become.  A  man  out  in  Billings,  Montana,  foresee- 
ing this  scarcity,  years  ago  started  a  corner  in  elk 
teeth.  He  has  trunks  full  of  them,  strong  boxes 
full  of  them  in  safety-deposit  vaults  in  the  East.  He 
expects  to  unload  some  day  before  long.  Alas,  even 
the  Indians,  among  whom  he  planned  to  find  many 
purchasers,  have  grown  forgetful  of  the  old  days! 
Now  they  will  as  readily  buy  a  celluloid  elk  tooth 

123 


.     LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

to  adorn  a  beef-hide  shirt  as  the  real  thing  to  go 
on  a  buckskin  bridal  robe.  As  to  our  big  game,  we 
certainly  are  in  other  times  which  bring  other  cus- 
toms. 

There  may  be  a  few  European  noblemen  who  still 
think  they  can  come  to  America  to  hunt  buffalo  and 
fight  Indians,  but  the  American  people  have  long  ago 
forgotten  the  buffalo.  We  owed  this  great  creature 
a  better  tribute.  It  was  guide  and  supporter  of  our 
fathers  in  their  ways  of  Western  expansion.  Once 
it  swarmed  in  Georgia  and  the  Carolinas,  and  it 
was  the  buffalo  and  the  elk  that  laid  out  the  first 
trails  to  the  westward  across  the  Appalachian 
Divide.  The  Sioux  Indians  also  used  to  live  in 
that  same  country,  though  not  everyone  knows  that, 
or  even  that  they  later  lived  in  Kentucky,  and  in 
Minnesota  until  the  Chippewas  drove  them  west- 
ward to  the  Plains.  The  first  expansionists  were 
perhaps  the  Sioux,  and  they  followed  the  buffalo 
trails  to  the  westward,  the  same  trails  later  taken  by 
Daniel  Boone  and  his  like. 

When  the  settlers  reached  Kentucky  the  buffalo 
began  to  disappear.  They  disappeared  next  from 
Missouri,  though  no  less  a  person  than  Kit  Carson 
hunted  buffalo  in  Missouri,  and  hunted  them  with 
the  Sioux  Indians  at  that.  But  when  the  Carsons 
and  Boones  came  to  the  great  river  of  conquest,  the 

124 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

Missouri,  the  "Big  Muddy,"  they  halted  at  the  edge 
of  the  buffalo  country  par  excellence — that  land  so 
long  known  as  the  Great  West  in  the  minds  of  the 
American  people.  Then  ensued  the  day  of  the  buf- 
falo, a  very  big  one  in  our  national  history.  We 
could  not  have  built  our  railroads  without  the  buf- 
falo, nor  have  broken  into  the  fastnesses  of  the 
American  desert  with  our  farms,  any  more  than 
we  could  have  subjugated  our  Indians  while  the 
buffalo  remained. 

The  buffalo  range  of  the  trans-Missouri  ran  from 
Mexico  far  north  into  the  British  provinces,  and 
from  the  Missouri  River  to  the  Rocky  Mountains — 
indeed,  even  across  the  Rocky  Mountains,  at  the 
height  of  the  trapping  days,  when  the  hunters 
pressed  them  too  far  back  into  the  hills  to  the  west- 
ward. They  appeared  around  old  Fort  Hall,  Idaho, 
before  Fremont's  time. 

As  to  the  total  numbers  of  these  great  animals, 
at  the  time  of  the  first  white  occupation  of  the  trans- 
Missouri,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  computation. 
Certainly  there  were  millions,  but  how  many  millions 
one  can  only  guess.  The  commerce  which  swept 
them  away  left  few  records  to  determine  its  own 
extent.  The  period  from  1823  to  1883  covers  sixty 
years  of  slaughter,  but  the  slaughter  was  not  meas- 
ured or  recorded.  The  commerce  of  the  Santa  Fe 

125 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

trail  depended  on  the  buffalo;  indeed,  every  wagon 
or  pack  train  which  crossed  the  Plains  relied  upon 
the  buffalo  as  a  sure  source  of  food  en  route.  White 
and  red  man  alike  depended  upon  this  great  animal 
whose  numbers  ran  everywhere  in  uncounted  thou- 
sands. With  the  white  man  the  buffalo  was 
a  convenience;  with  the  Indian  it  was  a  necessity. 
Not  even  in  the  scientifically  conducted  pack- 
ing industries  of  today  is  the  last  by-product  of  an 
animal  utilized  as  it  was  by  the  Plains  Indians.  To 
them  the  buffalo  gave  everything :  food,  fuel,  arms, 
utensils,  clothing,  dwelling,  ornaments  and  luxuries 
— even,  at  last,  surplus  currency  for  the  aboriginal 
bank  account.  Indeed,  the  modern  packer  has  all 
the  worst  of  it  in  comparison  with  the  Indian.  The 
latter  had  nothing  at  all  to  pay  for  his  cattle,  whereas 
the  Beef  Trust,  amiable  and  well-meaning  as  may 
be  its  intentions  to  sweep  clear  the  Western  plains 
at  no  cost  to  itself,  is  'still  obliged  to  pay  something 
for  its  cattle.  What  an  opportunity  was  lost  to  the 
Beef  Trust  in  those  old  buffalo  days!  If  only  it 
could  have  run  its  plants  on  cattle  absolutely  free ! 

As  to  this  last,  however,  it  might  have  been 
almost  as  well  for  the  American  people  had  the 
Packing  Trust  been  organized  earlier.  It  would 
have  saved  millions  of  tons  of  good  food  which  went 
absolutely  to  waste — a  food  so  abundant  and  univer- 

126 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

sal  in  its  time  that  Western  restaurants  were  obliged 
to  put  up  the  sign,  "No  Buff  Served  Here."  The 
killing  off  of  the  buffalo  entailed  one  of  the  greatest 
industrial  wastes  ever  known  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  How  many  tons  of  meat  were  there  thus 
left  unutilized?  No  one  can  tell.  More  than  two 
million  tons,  perhaps  twenty  million  tons — a  hun- 
dred million.  Would  that  we  had  it  today  to  feed 
the  starving  slum  folk  fresh  from  Europe!  There 
is  no  verification  possible  in  buffalo  estimates.  The 
story  is  commonly  accepted  that  a  million  hides 
came  down  the  Missouri  River  in  1883,  the  last  year 
of  the  Northern  buffalo  herd.  These  figures  are 
probably  too  large.  One-half  or  one-third  that  num- 
ber would  be  more  accurate,  according  to  fur  deal- 
ers of  that  epoch.  Yet  1883  was  only  one  year  out 
of  more  than  sixty,  and  this  million  hides  came  from 
only  the  upper  portion  of  the  range,  that  along  the 
newly-builded  Northern  Pacific  Railroad.  Out  of 
the  sixty  great  years  of  the  buffalo,  forty  were  years 
of  unexampled  waste.  The  famous  American  his- 
torian, Francis  Parkman,  killed  buffalo  for  no  better 
trophy  than  their  tails,  and  boasted  of  it.  Later 
than  Parkman  came  the  butchers  of  the  Old  World, 
noblemen  who  shot  without  hire  and  with  no  pur- 
pose save  that  of  killing.  These,  from  the  Grand 
Duke  Alexis  down,  did  their  share.  Army  officers 

127 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

shot  for  sport — and  sport  ends  soon  where  one  must 
stop  when  a  ton  of  meat  falls  before  one  well-placed 
bullet.  The  straggling  settler  on  the  edge  of  things 
kept  meat  for  his  winter  supply,  but  he  could  not 
help  killing  "just  one  more" — and  he  left  it  lying 
where  it  fell.  A  man  on  Plum  Creek,  near  Great 
Bend,  Kansas,  long  made  a  living  by  supplying  food 
to  westbound  wagon  trains — and  he  sold  nothing  but 
buffalo  tongues.  The  rest  rotted. 

The  Indian  did  not  waste ;  the  white  man  did  noth- 
ing but  waste.  The  measure  of  his  destruction  is 
colossal.  A  pile  of  buffalo  bones  higher  than  any 
house  in  town  and  some  hundreds  of  yards  in  length 
lay  waiting  shipment  in  one  Kansas  town  in  the 
seventies.  Out  of  this  one  station  there  was  once 
billed  a  trainload  of  cars  loaded  with  sacked  tips  of 
buffalo  horns  alone.  This  was  part,  and  only  part, 
of  the  flotsam  of  the  southern  range  after  the  skin- 
hunters  had  left  it.  There  is  no  measuring  of  these 
figures. 

The  result  of  it  all  was  that  we  took  the  fight  all 
out  of  Brother  Indian.  Left  without  a  living,  he 
became  pacifico,  like  prisoners  of  old  Spain,  before 
he  became  incommunicado  on  the  reservations. 
Then  we  finished  our  railroads  and  followed  them 
with  farms,  many  of  which  were  bought  with  the 
price  of  buffalo  hides  or  buffalo  bones. 

128 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

Oh,  we  are  civilized,  we  Americans,  and  we  are 
rich,  rich!  Otherwise  we  could  not  have  afforded 
all  our  incredible  waste,  our  incredibly  brutal  ex- 
travagance, our  unrighteous  haste  in  squandering 
our  own  resources.  We  are  the  most  reckless  peo- 
ple in  the  world  today,  no  doubt,  as  we  are  the  rich- 
est. Let  us  not  ponder  upon  the  fact  that  in  time 
the  spendthrift  goes  broke,  and  that  "spendthrift" 
may  be  as  fair  a  denomination  for  a  nation  as 
for  an  individual.  Let  us  forget  our  excesses  as 
things  unpleasant  or  as  things  humorous,  whichever 
one  likes.  We  do  not  mourn  about  a  million  dollars 
— why  grieve  about  a  million  hides?  We  do  not 
ponder  upon  the  extinction  of  the  white  pine  as  a 
forest  tree — why  trouble  ourselves  about  the  wiping 
out  of  a  race  or  of  a  species?  We  are  rich,  rich; 
we  can  afford  it.  We  can  even,  in  our  careless  be- 
lief, afford  to  be  de- Americanized. 

As  to  the  process  of  our  wastefulness  in  the  de- 
struction of  the  buffalo,  there  was  a  curiously  sys- 
tematic organization  about  it.  It  was  necessary  to 
kill  and  skin  every  buffalo  on  the  Western  plains 
at  the  first  possible  moment ;  wherefore,  the  Ameri- 
can mind  swiftly  reduced  it  to  a  science.  The  mar- 
kets of  the  world  could  use  this  great  shaggy  robe 
— could,  to  some  small  extent,  use  the  leather  made 
from  the  hide.  Hence  dealers  set  about  the  problem 

129 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

of  merchandizing,  taking  supply  to  the  demand,  and 
uniting  the  corners  of  the  world. 

Fur  traders  multiplied  in  the  Middle  West.  They 
could  pay  as  much  as  two  dollars  for  a  good  robe — 
at  the  last  of  the  trade  sometimes  as  much  as  four 
dollars,  or  perhaps  eight  dollars  for  a  painted  Indian 
robe.  There  were  outfits  all  over  the  Plains  picking 
up  robes  among  the  Indian  villages.  There  were 
trading-posts  established  where  the  Indians  brought 
their  robes.  The  day  was  one  of  waste  and  ruin 
and  dissolution  and  destruction.  Some  of  the  trad- 
ers used  whisky  with  the  Indians,  although  this 
ancient  practice  of  fur  traders  was  not  approved  of 
by  the  new  and  sober  school  of  commerce  which 
was  connected  with  the  robe  trade  pure  and  simple. 
Sometimes  a  pint  of  whisky  to  the  head  man  made 
his  heart  good  and  he  told  his  people  to  sell  their 
robes.  In  the  earlier  times  the  red  men  were  paid 
in  trade  goods  on  which  the  trader  made  his  own  big 
profit;  but  in  the  railroad  days  of  the  buffalo  robe 
trade  it  was  the  custom  to  pay  coin  to  the  Indian 
and  trust  him  to  spend  it  back  again  at  the  goods 
wagon  or  shopcounter,  as  the  case  might  be.  Some- 
times the  native  hunter  got  as  little  as  a  dollar,  or 
a  dollar  and  a  half,  for  his  buffalo  robe.  Those  were 
easy  times.  The  Indian  soon  learned  that  he  could 
make  more  money  by  killing  more  buffalo.  In  time, 

130 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

perhaps,  he  now  and  then  killed  for  the  hide  alone, 
though  he  execrated,  and  abolished  as  effectually  as 
he  could,  all  the  white  skin-hunters,  as  soon  as  he 
learned  they  were  killing  off  the  buffalo  and  taking 
nothing  but  the  hides. 

The  Indian  robes  traded  for  were,  in  the  earlier 
days,  practically  all  dressed  robes,  and  the  Indian 
tan  was  better  than  any  the  white  man  could  ever 
make.  The  Indian  process  of  tanning  consisted  of 
scraping  the  hide  close  with  one  of  those  absurdly 
inefficient-looking  little  bone-handled  hoes  or  scrap- 
ers which  we  see  in  museums  now,  then  working  it 
hour  after  hour  over  a  log  or  beam,  or  over  a  twisted 
sinew  rope,  the  flesh  side  being  covered  with  clay 
and  grease  and  buffalo  brains.  A  very  large  robe 
was  hard  to  handle  in  this  way,  so  sometimes  the 
Indian  lady  operating  would  split  it  down  the  middle 
of  the  back  and  tan  the  two  pieces  separately.  A 
great  many  scientists  have  been  unable  to  tell  the 
origin  of  the  Indian  practice  of  splitting  the  buffalo 
robe  and  then  sewing  it  together  again.  The  answer 
was  easy  to  those  who  knew  about  it. 

Sometimes  a  hunter,  red  or  white,  who  was  alone 
and  had  killed  a  buffalo,  found  that  the  beast  had 
lain  down  to  die  with  his  forelegs  doubled  back 
under  him,  and  had  not  fallen  over  on  his  side.  This 
suggested  one  form  of  butchering  work  not  unusual 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

on  the  Plains.  The  hunter,  finding  the  heavy  carcass 
hard  for  him  to  handle,  made  no  attempt  to  remove 
the  skin  in  the  usual  way,  with  the  slit  down  the  belly 
side  of  the  hide.  He  cut  the  hide  down  the  back, 
from  neck  to  tail,  and  skinning  it  down  on  each  side, 
spread  it  out  on  the  ground,  leaving  the  carcass  still 
sitting  up,  as  it  were.  Then  he  cut  in  along  the 
hump  and  tenderloin  and  took  out  the  choice  pieces, 
the  "boss"  ribs  of  the  hump  and  the  "depouille," 
and  the  prized  back- fat  which  any  plainsman  knew 
was  sweeter  than  the  belly-fats.  As  he  did  his 
dissection  he  piled  the  pieces  on  the  spread  hide  on 
either  side,  and  so  at  last  he  packed  his  horse  with 
clean  meat  and  went  away  rejoicing.  He  left  behind 
him  a  split  robe  and  the  best  part  of  a  ton  of  unused 
carcass.  Perhaps  his  squaw  might  come  around 
there  another  day,  but  usually  it  was  easier  to  kill 
another  buffalo. 

The  Indians  sold  a  certain  number  of  robes  to 
the  white  traders,  even  in  the  days  of  the  arrow  and 
lance,  before  they  were  generally  supplied  with  fire- 
arms ;  but  all  the  robes  collected  by  the  Indians  made 
rather  a  small  number  as  against  the  great  total  of 
hides  which  began  to  stream  eastward,  down  the 
rivers  and  along  the  railways.  It  was  incumbent 
upon  the  white  man  to  get  the  last  robe  at  the  first 
moment.  The  result  was  that  highly  differentiated 

132 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

agency,  the  skin-hunting  outfit,  the  swift  rise  and 
fall  of  which  added  at  one  time  a  distinctive  feature 
to  Western  life. 

Any  man  owning  a  wagon  and  team  might  turn 
skin-hunter,  and  indeed  most  of  the  frontiersmen  did 
so  at  one  time  or  another  up  to  1871,  on  the  lower 
range,  and  until  1883  in  the  North.  One  may  have 
food  and  some  sort  of  clothing — but  what  is  life 
without  cash  ?  And  if  cash  can  be  obtained  only  by 
the  sale  of  what  one  has,  and  if  one  has  only  un- 
counted robes  of  stupid  brute  beasts,  what  is  the  nat- 
ural inference  and  result?  Some  Western  men 
farmed  at  the  edge  of  things,  but  very  many  went 
skin-hunting.  Sometimes  two  or  three  would  make 
up  a  partnership  for  the  sake  of  greater  safety 
against  the  Indians,  always  bitterest  against  the 
white  hide-hunters.  There  might  perhaps  be  two  or 
three  wagons,  perhaps  half  a  dozen  in  a  big  outfit. 
The  wagons  had  high  sideboards  and  heavy  canvas 
covers,  and  sometimes  there  were  four  horses,  or 
even  six  if  the  partnership  were  opulent. 

A  rude  press,  a  beam  at  the  tail-gate,  was  occa- 
sionally used  in  pressing  the  hide  bales,  though  most 
of  the  robe  trade  was  in  hides  rough-dried  and 
folded  only  once,  lengthwise.  This  latter  method  of 
handling  the  hide  was  more  common  nearer  to  the 
railroads.  The  skin  outfit  was  divided  into  wagon- 

133 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

men,  killers,  and  skinners.  Sometimes  one  hunter 
would  keep  them  all  busy  with  hides,  though  two 
killers  were  usual ;  and,  indeed,  in  that  time  of  West- 
ern life,  hunters  were  easy  to  find,  for  it  was  the 
exception  to  see  a  man  who  was  not  a  perfect  rifle- 
shot. 

The  skinning  of  the  dead  buffalo  took  time,  and 
thirty  or  forty  heads  a  day  was  the  limit  of  what 
the  outfit  would  probably  care  to  kill.  The  stretch- 
ing and  curing  of  the  hides  was  slower  work,  though 
as  to  the  killing,  that  might  be  a  matter  of  but  an 
hour  or  so.  Sometimes  it  was  done  at  one  "stand" 
— that  is  to  say,  in  one  spot,  where  the  concealed 
hunter  shot  time  after  time  into  the  confused  bunch 
of  buffalo,  which  huddled  up  and  did  not  dare  to 
run.  You  cannot  see  it  today,  but  fifteen  or  twenty 
years  ago  you  might  have  seen  it,  this  record  of  the 
killer's  work.  You  may  still  know  districts  where 
the  buffalo  wallows  are  not  yet  all  gone;  perhaps 
you  know  some  corner  where  you  can  see  a  verified, 
genuine  buffalo  trail,  cut  deep  into  the  soil ;  but  one 
does  not  know  where  you  can  find  today  that  other 
sort  of  record,  the  story  written  in  a  ring  of  white 
skeletons,  thirty,  forty,  or  more,  all  lying  on  a  space 
not  more  than  an  acre  in  extent. 

Suppose  you  have  seen  this  loose  circle  of  scat- 
tered bones  marking  a  "stand"  in  the  old  buffalo 

134 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

days.  Look  about  and  you  might  see  the  grass 
waving  on  the  same  ridge  behind  which  the  killer 
lay,  perhaps  three  hundred  yards  distant.  The 
heavy  Sharps  rifle — and  the  hunter  would  have  no 
other  arm  in  the  old  days — would  shoot  in  practi- 
cally the  same  place  with  its  slug  of  lead  half  as  long 
as  your  finger.  The  main  concern  of  the  hunter 
was  to  get  the  range  and  to  keep  out  of  sight.  Yes, 
no  doubt  that  ridge  was  where  he  lay.  Farther  on, 
at  the  first  waterhole,  perhaps  three  or  four  miles 
away,  you  may  find  traces  of  an  old  camp,  with 
dried  bits  of  wood,  sticklike,  scattered  about.  It  was 
here  that  the  wagon  stopped,  and  these  were  the  pegs 
used  in  stretching  the  hides  on  the  earth  to  dry. 
The  bone-hunters,  who  after  a  time  swept  off  every 
trace  of  the  slaughter  of  the  buffalo,  sometimes  left 
the  hide-pegs. 

The  buffalo-killer,  when  he  set  out  from  camp  to 
locate  the  herd  for  the  day,  took  with  him  his  six- 
teen-pound rifle  and  his  belt  full  of  long,  heavy  car- 
tridges. Perhaps  he  hunted  on  foot  altogether,  and 
certainly  he  must  leave  his  horse  behind  while  at 
his  specific  work  of  shooting.  Crawling  to  the  top 
of  some  ridge  beyond  which  he  heard  the  low,  mut- 
tering rumble  that  told  him  his  game  was  near,  at 
length  he  saw  his  quarry — great  shaggy,  monstrous 
brutes,  savage-looking  as  bears  yet  harmless  as 

135 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

sheep — feeding  or  fighting  or  resting  on  the  grassy 
flat  before  him,  scores  of  them — hundreds  of  them, 
perhaps. 

That  sight  will  be  seen  no  more  by  any  hunter 
of  the  world;  yet  it  gave  this  man  no  excitement. 
He  only  swept  out  a  clean  place  to  lie,  bent  together 
a  few  spears  of  grass  at  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  and 
placed  his  cartridge-belt  handily  before  him  on  the 
ground.  First  studying  the  wind  and  the  distance 
carefully  and  noting  the  trend  of  the  feeding  ani- 
mals, at  length  he  drew  out  his  cleaning-rod  and 
his  firing-stick,  crossing  the  two  wands  together  in 
the  grasp  of  his  left  hand  and  resting  his  heavy  rifle 
in  the  angle  where  it  would  lie  motionless.  Then 
he  again  estimated  his  distance,  perhaps  two  or  three 
hundred  yards  or  more — as  close  as  he  could  get 
without  alarming  the  herd — and  fired  his  first  shot, 
aiming  at  some  cow  standing  broadside  toward  him 
and  close  toward  the  front  of  the  feeding  portion 
of  the  herd.  He  aimed  low,  for  the  heart  of  the 
buffalo  lies  unbelievably  low  down,  close  to  the 
shaggy  knee  of  the  foreleg  which  sometimes  rubs 
a  little  bare  place  almost  directly  over  the  heart. 
A  shot  in  that  region  was  usually  quickly  fatal. 
There  must  be  no  flurry  or  excitement,  and  the  herd 
must  be  kept  still.  "Shucks !"  exclaimed  the  hunter, 
as  he  saw  the  dust  cut  from  the  fur  fly  half-way  up 

136 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

the  side  of  his  game,  and  knew  that  he  had  over- 
estimated his  distance.  He  lowered  his  sights,  and 
waited  for  the  cow  to  lie  down.  She  would  not  get 
up  again  but  the  hunter  called  this  bad  shooting. 
Later  victims  he  might  purposely  shoot  through  the 
lungs,  sure  that  they  could  not  stagger  very  far. 

A  part  of  the  herd  became  uneasy,  began  to  move, 
to  string  out.  Now  the  hunter  must  act  at  once  or 
be  left  alone  with  nothing  to  show  for  his  morning's 
work  and  nothing  to  keep  the  skinners  busy.  Hur- 
riedly he  aimed  at  the  leading  buffalo  of  those  now 
on  the  move.  Pictures  by  artists  who  never  saw  the 
buffalo  nearly  always  show  the  herd  led  by  some 
majestic  bull.  Artists  are  not  even  as  accurate  as 
scientists.  It  was  always  an  old  cow  that  led  the 
herd  and  it  was  the  first  care  of  the  killer  to  learn 
which  cow  this  was  and  if  possible  to  shoot  her  down 
the  first  thing.  If  he  failed  in  this  the  herd  might 
get  out  of  hand.  But  he  rarely  failed  if  he  knew  his 
business.  As  their  leader  stumbled  to  her  knees 
and  sank  down,  the  tetupid  creatures  following 
snuffed  and  stumbled  and  began  to  "mill,"  moaning, 
perhaps,  and  finally  standing  still,  looking  at  the 
silent  death  coming  they  knew  not  whence  and  smit- 
ing them  down  one  by  one.  Be  sure  that  once  hav- 
ing his  "stand"  established,  the  hunter  behind  the 
grass  wisp  went  on  with  his  work  as  fast  as  he 

137 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

might,  cleaning  his  rifle  and  shooting  steadily.  One, 
two,  ten,  twenty — his  belt  was  empty  at  last  and  the 
ground  in  front  of  him  was  black. 

One  is  almost  tempted  to  be  thankful  that  the 
Indians  sometimes  got  him  before  he  got  back  to 
camp.  Yet  he  was  living  according  to  his  lights  and 
according  to  his  environment.  Sometimes  he  went 
to  the  legislature  or  to  Congress  afterward.  There 
are  very  many  good  men  in  the  West,  leading  men, 
who  were  skin-hunters  in  their  time. 

Sometimes  a  skinner  was  paid  so  much  a  hide  for 
his  work,  or  sometimes  he  was  hired  on  a  time  basis, 
or  sometimes  all  the  men  were  equal  partners.  Fifty 
cents  a  hide  was  occasionally  paid.  The  camp-cook, 
after  he  heard  the  rifle  begin  its  work  a  mile  or  two 
away,  would  throw  a  sheaf  of  worn  I.  Wilson 
butcher-knives  before  the  skinners  who  grumblingly 
•made  ready  to  go  at  their  work.  It  was  monoto- 
nous, skinning  some  millions  of  buffalo  over  a  thou- 
sand miles  of  country.  One  genius  invented  a  time- 
saving  device — a  long  iron  picket-pin,  which  was 
driven  through  the  jaws  of  the  dead  buffalo,  fasten- 
ing the  carcass  firmly  to  the  ground.  Then  he  loos- 
ened the  hide  around  the  neck,  cut  it  down  the  belly, 
and  attached  his  team  of  horses  to  the  free  edge  of 
the  tough  neck-skin.  Starting  up  his  team,  he  ripped 
the  entire  hide  from  the  body — sometimes. 

138 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

Working  by  day,  gambling  by  night,  drinking  un- 
til the  whisky  gave  out,  and  grumbling  until  the 
load  was  made  for  the  trip  to  the  railroad  town — 
this  was  the  life  of  one  sort  of  American  citizen 
at  one  time  in  our  Western  history.  Untold  num- 
bers of  high-topped  wagons  rolled  into  these  scores 
of  railroad  towns,  each  with  its  burden  of  shaggy 
brown  bales,  each  leaving  behind  the  ghastliness  of 
an  unparalleled  slaughter  and  waste  of  life,  and  of 
the  means  of  life,  to  an  appalling  total.  Those  were 
the  days  before  the  cowboy  came,  but  they  were  wild 
and  hard  as  any  of  the  wild,  hard  Western  days. 

The  skin  outfit  sold  its  hides  for  only  a  fraction 
of  what  they  were  really  worth.  Then  they  bought 
more  whisky,  drank,  fought,  made  more  frontier 
history,  and  departed  again  for  the  range.  The 
skin-hunter's  calling  was  one  easily  entered.  It  in- 
vited some  good  men  and  a  great  many  bad  ones.  It 
was  a  calling  distinct  in  itself.  There  were  not 
many  skin-hunters  who  later  became  bone-gatherers 
— that  was  done  by  another  wave  of  population.  Be- 
tween these  skin-hunters  and  the  bone-gatherers 
came  the  wolfers — yet  another  distinct  gentry.  The 
carcasses  of  the  buffalo  attracted  thousands  of  gray 
wolves,  and  the  wolfers  made  a  business  of  poison- 
ing the  carcasses — or  did  so  until  the  wise  wolf-beast 
learned  much  cunning  about  traps  and  poison.  Fol- 

139 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

lowing  the  buffalo  pelts,  there  were  marketed  thou- 
sands of  wolf  robes,  not  so  good  as  the  great  robe 
of  the  buffalo  but  serving  to  mark  another  swift 
epoch  of  the  West. 

The  skin-hunter  left  his  imprint  upon  the  West 
in  habits,  customs,  even  in  language.  There  was 
long  current,  west  of  the  Missouri,  the  slang  phrase, 
"He  got  a  'stand'  on  me."  Your  friend  would  meet 
you  and  say:  "I  am  sorry  I  am  late  with  my  ap- 
pointment, but  I  met  Jones  on  the  street,  and  he 
got  a  stand  on  me  and  told  me  one  of  his  long- 
winded  stories."  The  metaphor  is  obvious,  as  ap- 
plied to  the  buttonholing  bore.  His  victim  could 
not  get  away.  This  expression  has  been  little  heard 
for  ten  or  fifteen  years  in  the  West,  and  the  infer- 
ence is  that  we  are  now  getting  too  far  away  from 
the  buffalo  days. 

Your  professional  skin-hunter  had  his  own  little 
idiosyncrasies,  like  any  other  specialist.  The  West- 
ern cowboy  was  always  particular  about  his  hat, 
gloves,  and  saddle,  but  as  to  his  bed  he  cared  little 
where  or  how  he  slept,  and  his  slicker  was  often 
a  mattress  for  him.  The  skin-hunter  cared  nothing 
at  all  for  his  garb  nor  was  there  any  uniformity  in 
it,  and  he  would  ride  anything  at  all  in  the  way  of  a 
saddle.  When  it  came  to  sleeping,  however,  he  was 
a  Sybarite.  If  he  had  nothing  else  he  was  bound 

140 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

to  have  a  good  bed.  The  skin-hunter's  California 
blankets  would  sometimes  cost  him  seventy-five  dol- 
lars and  he  would  fight  before  he  would  lose  his  bed. 

Pat  Garrett,  once  Collector  of  Customs  at  El 
Paso,  Texas,  and  once  a  protege  of  President  Roose- 
velt, was  a  member  of  a  skin-hunting  party  on  the 
Staked  Plains  in  his  young  days,  and  he  tells  with 
amusement  how,  once  upon  a  time,  he  and  one  or 
two  companions  left  the  wagons  and  went  westward 
on  an  exploring  expedition  of  their  own.  When 
they,  or  one  of  them,  after  some  weeks  mixed  in 
with  Indian  fighting,  got  back  to  the  place  where 
the  wagons  had  been,  both  wagons  and  beds  were 
gone. 

"Follow  them  up  ?"  said  Pat  Garrett.  "How  could 
you  tell  in  those  days  who  a  skin-hunter  was,  or 
where  he  came  from,  or  where  he  was  going?  We 
just  marked  the  beds  off — and  mine  cost  me  the  best 
part  of  a  hundred." 

What  became  of  the  buffalo  robes  that  came  in 
such  untold  thousands  from  the  Plains?  This  is  a 
very  common  question  yet  there  seems  no  answer  for 
it.  Today  a  good  robe  is  worth  what  it  will  bring. 
There  are  no  quotations;  but  if  you  have  a  robe, 
keep  it.  There  are  very  few  left  among  the  whites, 
and  among  the  Indians  only  a  few,  preserved  as 
records ;  for  your  Indian  was  fond  of  inscribing  his 

141 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

deeds  of  valor  upon  the  inside  of  the  buffalo  robe. 
The  robe  has  almost  disappeared  from  sight,  whe- 
ther as  an  article  of  commerce  or  of  curiosity,  and 
this  is  true  though  the  skin  was  tough  enough  to 
wear  indefinitely.  Perhaps  our  fathers  were  care- 
less of  their  buffalo  robes,  thinking  they  could  easily 
get  others — the  old  cry  of  the  West  and  of  all  Amer- 
ica. Today  there  is  a  certain  value  in  a  whitened 
buffalo  skull,  bleached  on  the  Plains.  A  good  trophy 
head  is  worth  what  the  purchaser  will  give — from 
three  hundred  to  fifteen  hundred  dollars. 

Once  upon  a  time,  within  memory,  there  was  a 
Chicago  restaurant  which  advertised  buffalo  meat. 
It  came  from  a  private  herd  on  the  Flathead  reserva- 
tion. There  are  no  restaurants  today,  West  or  East, 
which  advertise  "No  Buff  Served  Here!"  Even 
in  the  last  days  of  the  buffalo  killing  there  were  Bal- 
lard  rifles  and  Winchesters  on  the  Plains.  Today 
a  Sharps  rifle  and  an  oldtime  "I.  Wilson  butcher" 
are  curiosities,  and  would  seem  affectations  if 
claimed  as  personal  equipment.  Perhaps  you  once 
saw  your  father  or  your  grandfather  wear  a  pair  of 
buffalo  mittens,  or  a  rarer  pair  of  buffalo  moccasins. 
You  will  never  see  that  again. 

For  a  time  the  shrinking  herds  of  the  buffalo 
found  refuges  in  the  Red  Desert  of  Wyoming,  the 
Lost  Park  of  Colorado,  the  Barren  Grounds  of  the 

142 


Musselshell,  in  the  cow  country,  but  now  there  is 
certainly  not  a  head  left  in  any  one  of  those  districts. 
The  Cree  Indians  came  down  and  cleaned  out  the 
last  of  the  Musselshell  band  long  years  ago.  In 
1886,  1887,  1888,  and  1889  there  were  a  few 
buffalo  left  in  the  Neutral  Strip  or  the  Panhandle  of 
Texas,  in  a  very  wild  and  desert  country  where 
water  is  extremely  scarce  and  where  it  is  dangerous 
for  the  unskilled  hunter  to  venture.  I  saw  about 
two  hundred  and  fifty  head  of  buffalo  in  this  coun- 
try in  the  year  1886.  That  was  the  time  of  the  land 
Boom  in  Kansas  and  the  advancing  settlers  soon 
wiped  out  the  last  of  these.  There  are  now  no  wild 
buffalo  in  the  United  States.  There  are  a  few, 
strictly  protected,  somewhere  in  the  British  posses- 
sions, indefinitely  in  the  "Peace  River  District." 
There  are,  of  course,  some  few  small  herds  of  buf- 
falo owned  in  different  parts  of  the  West,  from  the 
Flathead  reservation  to  Texas ;  and  the  Yellowstone 
Park  wild  herd,  small  and  ill-thriving  as  it  is,  is  all 
that  remains  of  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
head  which  was  the  limit  a  good  hunter  and  myself 
could  assign  under  a  fair  count  in  the  winter  of 
1894 — when  we  snowshoed  over  the  entire  Park — 
although  everybody  then  believed  there  were  more 
than  five  hundred  in  the  Park. 

So  now,  of  course,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
143 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

buffalo  hunt.  There  was  a  man  of  the  East — and 
the  impression  remains  that  he  came  from  Philadel- 
phia, too,  more  is  the  shame  to  Philadelphia! — who 
organized  the  most  peculiar  buffalo  hunt  on  record. 
He  bought  a  buffalo  bull  of  a  zoological  park,  had  it 
shipped  to  him,  took  it  out  into  the  woods  back 
of  his  house,  calmly  shot  it,  and  had  its  head 
mounted!  Even  this  was  almost  as  exciting  as 
some  of  the  "hunts"  for  tame  buffalo,  stories  of 
which  now  and  again  come  from  Oklahoma  or  one 
of  the  Indian  reservations  of  Dakota.  There  was 
an  automobile  taking  part  in  one  of  the  latest  of 
these  modern  buffalo  hunts.  We  go  hunting  now 
for  any  manner  of  big  game  personally  con- 
ducted by  the  licensed  guide  who  shows  us  last 
year's  elk  tracks  for  our  money  or  tells  tales  of 
a  buffalo  wallow  which  was  once  seen  on  his 
father's  farm. 

Yet  all  this  high-grade,  well-systematized  butch- 
ery in  which  the  Beef  Trust  did  not  play  a  part 
ended  only  about  twenty  years  ago.  The  Indians 
refuse  to  believe  that  it  is  ended.  They  pray  to  their 
leaders  among  the  white  men  to  take  them  North, 
far  away,  "where  the  buffalo  have  gone."  Being 
told  there  is  no  such  land  they  take  it  out  in  praying 
for  a  hereafter  in  which  there  shall  be  plenty  of 
buffalo.  One  of  these  days  some  of  us  white  Amer- 

144 


THE  WASTEFUL  WEST 

leans  may  be  praying  for  a  square  meal  of  beef  once 
more. 

The  destruction  of  the  buffalo  was  the  tragedy  of 
the  fur  trade.  It  was  not  so  much  a  blunder  in 
commerce  as  it  was  an  accident  of  civilization.  The 
belt  of  the  machinery  of  progress  got  loose  when 
the  railroads  came,  and  the  engine  "raced."  There 
was  a  time  of  flurry  and  unpreparedness  when  our 
transportation  for  the  first  time  ran  ahead  of  us. 
It  was  the  Great  Plains  railroads  that  killed  off  the 
buffalo. 

We  wiped  the  West  off  the  earth,  if  not  off  the 
maps,  long  ago,  and  now  we  seek  to  water  its  grave 
with  national  irrigation.  The  terms  civilized  and 
savage  are,  however,  but  relative,  and  there  is  al- 
ways some  sort  of  balance  struck  between  them. 
Continually  we  make  war  upon  the  wilderness,  its 
people,  its  creatures;  yet,  having  done  so,  we  covet 
again  the  wilderness,  yearn  for  it,  depend  upon  it, 
and  ape  it  even  in  our  clothing.  We  may  abolish  the 
wilderness  from  the  earth  and  from  the  map,  but  we 
cannot  abolish  it  from  our  blood.  It  is,  therefore, 
a  matter  of  course  after  all  that,  having  eaten  the 
heart  out  of  our  cake,  we  shall  manage  to  get  along 
with  the  fragments  left  around  the  edge.  We  may 
pay  a  little  more  for  the  fragments  than  for  all  the 
rest,  but  we  can  afford  it.  We  are  rich,  rich! 

145 


vni 

RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 


FOR  more  than  a  hundred  years  the  old  Ameri- 
can rifle  held  its  own,  the  small-bore,  muzzle- 
loading  squirrel  rifle,  with  its  little  round 
bullet  and  its  heavy,  long  barrel.  Our  early  fron- 
tiersmen managed  to  kill  turkey,  bear,  deer — even 
elk  and  buffalo — with  it.  With  such  a  rifle  the 
writer's  father  killed  his  buffalo  on  the  Platte  Valley 
in  1 86 1.  Today  we  should  not  feel  safe  with  such 
a  weapon  in  any  country  where  the  chipmunks  were 
in  the  least  disposed  to  be  cross.  We  should  feel 
pretty  much  the  same  way  about  the  old  .44  repeat- 
ing rifle,  the  first  of  its  kind,  which  really  killed 
more  game  than  all  the  rifles  ever  made  since  that 
model  came  on  the  market — because  game  abounded 
in  its  day.  Times  certainly  have  changed  in  fire- 
arms. It  is  a  long  step  from  the  squirrel  rifle  of 
Bunker  Hill  to  the  42  centimeter  howitzers  which 
did  their  work  across  the  water. 

No  doubt  you  remember  reading  as  a  boy  the 
books  of  the  first  African  big-game  hunters — Grant, 

149 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

Baker,  Speke.  Those  men  used  on  elephants  and 
buffalo  black-powder  rifles  of  four  bore  or  eight 
bore — small  cannons,  which  were  almost  the  limit 
in  recoil  to  be  sustained  by  the  human  shoulder. 
You  could  not  find  one  of  these  guns  anywhere  in 
Africa  or  anywhere  else  today. 

When  we  came  to  the  American  repeating  rifle 
of  .45  caliber,  which  used  seventy  grains  of  black 
powder  and  five  hundred  grains  of  soft  lead,  every- 
one thought  that  the  height  of  rifle  development  had 
been  attained.  Today  you  would  be  laughed  out  of 
camp  if  you  carried  one  of  those  guns,  the  same 
sort  with  which  part  of  our  soldiers  were  armed 
in  the  Cuban  campaign. 

Today  the  American  army  has  the  modern 
Springfield  rifle  of  the  1906  type,  whose  Spitzer 
bullet  of  .30  caliber  has  a  velocity  and  accuracy 
combined  which,  in  the  opinion  of  army  men,  make 
this  the  best  military  weapon  in  the  world.  It  is 
also  one  of  the  best  big  game  guns  in  the  world 
today.  Use  it  with  a  bullet  of  one  hundred  and 
seventy  grains,  and  it  will  do  business  with  almost 
anything  up  to  rhino  and  elephant  or  big  African 
buffalo.  Indeed,  it  will  kill  any  of  these  animals,  if 
rightly  handled.  With  this  piece,  which  your  gun- 
maker  can  reduce  to  sporting  lines  for  you  for  a  few 
dollars,  you  do  not  have  to  bother  much  about  eleva- 

150 


RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 

tions  up  to  three  hundred  yards,  as  you  once  needed 
to  when  you  used  the  old  black-powder  Springfield 
load. 

They  are  working  up  to  great  calibers  again  in 
European  artillery,  but  in  rifles  we  are  working  all 
the  time  toward  smaller  calibers  for  sporting 
weapons.  The  rifle  velocities  of  today  are  some- 
thing enormous,  tremendous,  terrific.  There  has 
just  come  out  a  little  .25  caliber  American  rifle 
whose  muzzle  velocity  goes  over  three  thousand  feet 
per  second.  It  is  but  a  few  years  ago  that  we 
vaunted  our  .30  caliber  rifles  of  twenty-three  hun- 
dred feet  velocity;  and  those  same  .30  calibers  with 
a  bullet  weighing  two  hundred  and  twenty  grains 
were  thought  quite  sufficient  to  stop  any  big  game 
on  the  American  continent — as  they  are  today,  for 
that  matter. 

For  some  time  one  of  the  most  popular  African 
rifles  for  lighter  work  has  been  the  .256  in  bolt 
action.  That  is  a  mere  baby  of  a  gun,  smaller  even 
than  the  old  American  squirrel  rifle.  Yet  it  has 
killed  many  elephants,  lions,  and  rhinos,  and  it  is 
very  accurate  and  useful  in  open  shooting  such  as 
they  have  in  hunting  the  antelopes  of  Africa.  Of 
course,  its  killing  power  depends  upon  the  tremen- 
dous velocity  of  the  little  bullet.  Any  good  hunter 
will  tell  you,  however,  that  this  rifle  is  not  to  be 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

accepted  on  a  paper  target  basis ;  it  is  accurate,  and 
it  will  kill  if  you  place  the  little  bullet  in  the  right 
spot.  Placed  far  from  the  vital  spots  on  a  big  game 
animal,  it  would  be  very  risky  for  the  user.  But  at 
least  one  woman  hunter  has  been  known  to  kill  a 
full-grown  tusker  with  the  .256 ;  and  the  tiny  bullet 
has  accounted  for  numberless  specimens  of  other 
great  game.  It  is  very  modern. 

The  descent  to  the  .256  from  the  black-powder 
four  bore  rifle  of  early  English  days  in  Africa  was 
at  first  gradual  and  then  very  swift.  It  is  easy  to 
recall  the  report  of  an  American  adventurer  who, 
a  little  over  a  dozen  years  ago,  came  back  from 
Africa  and  calmly  announced  that  he  had  been  able 
to  kill  all  the  species  of  African  big  game  with  the 
American  repeating  rifle  of  that  day.  Everyone 
scoffed  at  him  at  first.  Since  that  time  the  truth  of 
his  statement  has  been  proved  a  hundred  times  by 
other  Americans.  So  many  of  our  hunters  have 
demonstrated  the  .405  repeater,  for  instance,  that 
there  is  no  longer  any  question  of  its  efficiency,  al- 
though many  rifles  are  more  accurate  than  this. 

One  good  hunter  of  the  writer's  acquaintance  says 
that  should  he  ever  make  a  second  trip  to  Africa,  he 
would  take  no  other  gun  but  the  .405  for  any  kind 
of  game,  and  would  use  the  soft  point  bullets  and 
not  the  full  nickel-jacketed.  Everyone  to  his  taste. 

152 


RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 

That  particular  hunter  would  seem  to  be  entitled  to 
his  own  taste,  for  he  has  very  fully  demonstrated  his 
own  skill  and  success. 

The  old  English  preference  in  rifles  was  for  large 
calibers.  The  American  and  the  German  idea  of 
late  years  has  run  to  the  small  calibers.  The  Spitzer 
ammunition  in  .30  caliber,  as  made  for  the  1906 
Springfield,  will  shoot  a  great  deal  better  than  the 
average  rifleman  can  hold,  at  ranges  up  to  three 
hundred  yards ;  and  this  sort  of  ammunition  pretty 
much  leaves  out  of  the  question  the  necessity  for 
much  study  of  ranges  in  actual  hunting.  In  either 
the  bolt  action  or  the  finger  lever  action,  that  am- 
munition is  plenty  good  enough  for  any  game  on 
this  continent.  As  a  safe  rifle  for  all-round  African 
use  it  also  is  good  enough,  except  for  the  extremely 
heavy  game  such  as  rhino  and  elephant.  This  is 
the  belief  of  experts  who  have  proved  the  matter  out 
on  the  field  and  not  on  paper — in  which  latter  fash- 
ion most  rifle  problems  are  worked  out. 

An  English  professional  ivory  hunter  who  has 
killed  to  his  own  gun  four  htmdred  and  forty-seven 
bull  elephants,  for  their  ivory  alone,  has  written  a' 
book  which  shows  him  to  be  very  positive  in  his 
notions  as  to  what  is  safe  to  bring  home  the  bacon — 
or  the  ivory.  He  says  that  any  modern  rifle  will 
kill  heavy  game  sometimes — the  .256,  the  .303,  the 

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LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

.30,  etc. — but  that  he  wants  one  which  will  kill 
any  dangerous  animal,  not  occasionally,  but  every 
time.  For  all  kinds  of  game  except  rhino  and 
elephant,  he  likes  a  lead  or  copper-nosed  bullet  of 
three  hundred  and  fifty  to  four  hundred  grains  and 
twenty-three  hundred  feet  velocity  at  the  muzzle. 
It  will  be  seen  that  he  sticks  to  more  lead  and  less 
velocity,  being,"  with  these  figures,  from  five  hundred 
to  seven  hundred  feet  in  muzzle  velocity  behind  the 
top  notch  of  today.  His  experience  is  that  the 
heavier  bullet  expands  and  uses  all  its  shocking 
quality  in  the  body  of  the  animal,  and  does  not  slip 
on  through.  His  favorite  rifle  for  this  work  was  a 
.318,  with  copper-tipped  bullets. 

This  same  hunter  worked  out  to  his  own  satisfac- 
tion his  ideas  of  a  good  elephant  gun.  He  used  a 
single  trigger,  double-barreled,  English  express  rifle, 
.577  caliber,  with  a  seven  hundred  and  fifty  grain 
bullet  driven  by  an  axite  charge  equal  to  100  grains 
of  cordite.  He  chose  this  load  after  experimenting 
with  others.  He  tried  a  .600,  with  a  nine  hundred 
grain  bullet,  but  found  that  it  did  not  have  the  pene- 
tration of  the  .577,  although  the  rifle  weighed  three 
pounds  more.  On  the  other  hand  he  found  that  the 
.577  had  much  greater  stopping  quality  than  the 
.500  or  .450;  the  latter  would  sometimes  do  the 
work,  but  not  invariably.  His  .577  rifle  he  had 

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RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 

made  with  a  twenty-six-inch  barrel,  which  he  found 
long  enough;  a  rifle  too  long  and  too  heavy  is  not 
desirable  even  when  one  has  a  couple  of  Pullman 
porters  to  carry  it.  In  brief,  this  man's  preference, 
to  which  he  was  entitled  in  view  of  his  long  record 
of  success,  was  the  .318  for  long  range  and  the 
•577  for  short,  close,  and  dangerous  work. 

Even  with  these  powerful  rifles,  one  must  not 
under-estimate  the  need  for  accuracy  on  the  part 
of  the  shooter.  To  hit  an  elephant  in  the  brain  is 
something  of  a  trick,  even  when  it  is  standing  still. 
One  aims  at  the  brain  "on  a  line  between  the  eye 
and  the  ear"  of  the  elephant,  but  as  the  animal 
sometimes  stands  eight  or  nine  feet  high,  obviously 
the  angle  to  the  brain  changes  in  proportion  to  the 
distance  from  the  animal  itself.  If  you  are  close  up 
you  must  aim  below  that  line  between  the  eye  and 
the  ear.  If  you  are  farther  off — and  you  must  not 
be  so  far  off  that  you  cannot  shoot  with  exactness — 
you  can  aim  closer  on  that  line.  Miss  the  brain  and 
you  are  worse  off  than  if  you  had  not  shot. 

A  friend  of  mine  who  has  killed  his  charging  ele- 
phant says  that  the  animal  comes  on,  not  with  the 
trunk  rolled  up — as  usually  you  see  it  in  the  old 
pictures — but  with  the  trunk  extended  and  moving 
about.  The  point  of  aim  for  the  frontal  shot  is 
just  at  the  base  of  the  trunk ;  but  that  also  must  be 

155 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

taken  on  the  right  line  of  angle  to  the  brain,  else 
the  shot  does  not  stop  the  animal.  Indeed,  this  is 
a  difficult  shot  to  make  successfully. 

The  heart  shot  on  elephants  is  easier  if  one  has 
time  and  if  one  can  see  the  body  of  the  animal  in 
the  cover.  The  heart  lies  rather  low,  back  of  the 
knee,  much  as  it  does  in  the  buffalo  or  the  grizzly 
bear.  With  a  clean,  unimpeded  shot,  the  high  power 
rifle  will  drive  the  bullet  into  the  heart  of  an  ele- 
phant easily  enough.  The  heart  is  large  as  a  bucket 
and  if  you  know  where  it  is,  and  can  see  the  place, 
and  have  plenty  of  time — and  a  lot  of  other  things 
— the  heart  shot  is  not  so  bad. 

Another  African  hunter  says  that  if  an  elephant 
is  going  away  from  you,  you  can  make  a  spine  shot 
above  the  hips  which  often  will  drop  him.  This 
takes  a  tremendously  hard-hitting  load,  of  course. 
Sometimes  the  big  express  will  do  it. 

Yet  another  African  hunter  says  that  he  has  often 
put  elephants  hors  du  combat  by  the  simple  process 
of  shooting  them  in  the  knee  joint ;  the  modern  high 
power  rifle  bursts  open  the  joint  and  the  animal 
drops.  It  cannot  then  arise  and  may  be  dispatched 
later  at  one's  leisure.  I  have  never  heard  of  any 
other  hunters  who  have  tried  this  shot  deliberately. 
This  same  man  declares  that  if  you  stand  in  the 
face  of  a  charging  elephant  and  keep  on  firing  at 

156 


RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 

him,  he  will  certainly  turn.-  Yet  another  hunter 
says  that  it  is  not  difficult  to  sidestep  the  charge  of 
a  rhinoceros,  if  you  have  nerve  enough  to  wait 
until  it  is  close  before  you  step  aside.  In  any  case 
these  great  animals,  in  shape  and  size,  are  some- 
thing like  a  street  car.  One  fancies  that  the  theory 
of  plenty  of  lead  and  plenty  of  powder  would  be 
more  comforting  at  such  a  moment. 

The  keen  hitting,  small-bore  arm  is  for  the  delib- 
erate shot  or  the  long  range  shot.  Between  shoot- 
ing at  a  standing  animal  and  a  charging  animal 
there  is  all  the  difference  between  shooting  ducks 
over  decoys  and  quail  springing  in  cover;  one  is 
aiming  work  and  the  other  is  snapshooting. 

For  our  American  big  game  we  do  not  need  so 
much  shocking  power  but  must  have  range  and  ac- 
curacy; therefore,  the  small-bore  modern  weapon 
may  be  called  correct  for  our  country  today.  It  is 
sometimes  necessary  to  kill  mountain  sheep  at 
ranges  of  two  hundred  yards  or  over — although 
very  often  you  will  get  shots  at  seventy-five  or  one 
hundred  yards  in  actual  hunting  experience — and 
it  is  better  to  get  too  close  than  to  open  up  your 
battery  while  your  game  is  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  away.  Today  the  proposition  of  hitting  your 
game  when  you  have  found  it  is  far  simpler  than 
it  was  in  the  old  black-powder,  heavy  bullet  days, 

157 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

when  we  had  to  be  careful  in  the  estimate  of  the 
ranges.  The  old  Springfield  load,  for  instance,  had  a 
trajectory  which  would  not  injure  a  church  steeple  at 
five  hundred  yards,  although  if  you  managed  to 
plump  your  big  bullet  on  a  running  animal  the  lat- 
ter was  pretty  safe  to  stop. 

One  ought  never  to  go  hunting  for  rare  and  diffi- 
cult game,  or  for  dangerous  game,  without  having 
absolute  confidence  in  the  particular  rifle  which  he 
is  using.  He  ought  neither  to  change  his  footwear 
nor  his  gun  just  at  the  time  he  needs  the  most  com- 
fort and  most  confidence. 

It  is  a  good  thing  to  have  all  of  one's  rifles  fitted 
with  shotgun  stocks,  so  that  instinctively  one  shoots 
fairly  close,  at  least,  to  the  mark.  The  cheek-piece 
is  by  no  means  a  bad  thing  on  the  rifle  stock,  al- 
though most  Americans  sneer  at  this  as  a  European 
notion.  It  is  just  as  well  to  give  yourself  every 
per  cent  of  advantage  at  a  time  when  one  shot  means 
so  much  to  you,  and  the  cheek-piece  aids  in  quick, 
perfect  alignment. 

Especially  necessary,  of  course,  to  give  the  rifle- 
man confidence  in  his  rifle  is  thorough  acquaintance 
and  practice  with  the  rifle  sights.  Do  not  begin 
monkeying  with  your  sights  after  you  get  on  the 
game  field ;  know  your  rifle  before  you  go  to  testing 
it  at  the  last  instant. 

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RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 

Most  of  the  American  made  rifles  which  you  get 
will  shoot  too  high  for  you.  The  reason  for  this  is 
that  these  guns  are  sighted  at  the  factory  by  a  man 
who  holds  the  tip  of  the  front  sight  just  below  the 
edge  of  the  bull's-eye  at  which  he  aims.  The  ex- 
pert will  tell  you  that  in  this  way  he  gets  a  clearer 
and  more  exact  vision;  the  front  sight  is  not  lost 
indefinitely  in  the  black  of  the  bull's-eye.  Yet  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  this  man  is  hitting  higher  than  he  is 
aiming  all  the  time.  That  is  to  say,  his  rifle  is 
shooting  high  for  you. 

In  actual  practice  on  game,  you  do  not  want  to 
stop  to  allow  for  anything,  or  to  hold  below  or 
above  where  you  want  to  hit.  The  instinct  for  your 
eye  is  to  hold  your  front  sight  exactly  where  you 
want  to  hit,  and  your  rifle,  to  be  practical,  ought  to 
be  arranged  for  that  purpose.  That  was  the  way 
the  old  squirrel  rifle  was  sighted.  It  had  no  pro- 
vision whatever  for  changing  the  elevation.  The 
rear  sight  was  a  small,  flat  bar  with  a  notch  in  it. 
That  and  the  small,  low-lying  front  sight  made  all 
the  machinery  there  was  about  it,  and  with  this 
machinery  men  managed  to  kill  game.  That  theory 
today  is*  the  correct  one  for  actual  field  work,  and  it 
is  just  as  well,  if  you  want  to  get  absolute  confidence 
in  your  rifle,  to  work  to  something  of  that  theory. 
There  is  a  vast  difference  between  bull's-eyes  on  the 

159 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

target  range  and  bulls  on  the  hoof.  It  is  the  latter 
with  which  you  are  more  especially  engaged.  Do 
not  pay  too  much  attention  to  the  frequently  paid 
writing  of  "experts,"  who  often  praise  under  cover. 

There  are  a  great  many  rifle  sights  on  the  market, 
all  intended  to  make  rifle  shooting  easy  for  the 
novice  or  for  the  man  who  does  not  get  out  very 
often  in  the  open.  None  of  these  sights  will,  of 
itself,  make  a  good  rifle  shot  out  of  you.  You  must 
have  practice  to  get  confidence  in  your  weapon  and 
in  your  sights.  But  if  there  exists  in  your  case 
some  physical  impediment,  some  peculiarity  of  the 
eyes,  then  practice  will  do  you  no  good.  You  must, 
therefore,  determine  whether  your  eyes  qualify  you 
among  the  users  of  the  open-sight  rifle,  or  among 
those  who  by  reason  of  astigmatism  or  other  faulty 
vision,  or  because  of  old  eyes,  must  be  obliged  to 
use  some  kind  of  peep  sight  or  aperture  sight. 

It  is  conservative  advice  to  you — and  very  safe 
advice  in  these  days  of  flat  trajectories — to  stick  as 
long  as  you  can  to  the  open-sight  school.  On  the 
rifle  range  we  have  time  for  theories,  but  on  the 
game  range  we  do  not.  We  still  have  the  instinct  to 
shoot  quickly  and  to  shoot  directly  at  the  spot  we 
want  to  hit.  The  game  animal  is  not  going  to  stand 
and  wait.  The  old  school  of  open-sight  riflemen 
did  not  change  the  rear  sight  very  much ;  they  simply 

160 


RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 

drew  a  little  fine  or  a  little  coarse  with  the  front 
sight,  and  the  look  of  the  front  sight  was  the  deter- 
mining factor  in  making  the  shot. 

There  is  one  great  thing  to  be  said  in  favor  of  the 
open  sight,  which  often  is  lost  sight  of  by  the  theo- 
retical writer  on  rifle  shooting,  and  that  is  the  "illu- 
mination," the  distinctness  with  which  the  sights 
can  be  seen.  In  a  dark  wood,  or  on  a  dark  day, 
or  in  a  snowstorm  or  rainstorm,  you  cannot  see 
so  clearly  through  the  average  aperture  sights  as 
you  can  through  the  average  open  sights.  For  all 
purposes,  therefore,  the  latter  are  more  apt  to  be 
ready  for  instant  work  on  a  fairly  efficient  hunting 
basis.  If,  therefore,  you  can  still  shoot  the  open 
sights,  and  if  you  have  your  sights  adjusted  not  to 
hit  four  or  five  inches  above  where  you  are  holding 
but  to  hit  directly  where  you  hold  with  a  fair,  fine 
sight,  you  will  have  worked  out  a  system  which,  in 
all  likelihood,  will  hang  up  meat  in  your  camp. 

But  suppose  you  are  something  of  a  theorist,  or 
suppose  you  are  something  of  an  old  man,  which  is 
more  to  the  point,  and  that  for  you  the  open  sights 
begin  to  look  a  little  woolly  around  the  edges.  There 
remains  for  you  the  refuge  of  certain  scientific  op- 
tical principles.  In  reality  the  most  accurate  shoot- 
ing you  can  do  will  be  through  some  sort  of  aper- 
ture sight.  Thus  you  will  get  a  long  sighting  base — 

161 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

that  is  to  say  your  sights  will  be  a  long  way  apart, 
as  your  eye  is  close  to  the  rear  sight — so  that  your 
actual  practice  may  be  more  accurate  than  it  is  apt 
to  be  with  the  open  sights.  The  drawbacks  are  two : 
you  will  lack  illumination,  and  you  will  have  diffi- 
culty should  you  find  that  you  need  to  readjust  your 
range.  In  the  latter  case  you  cannot  just  draw 
coarser  with  the  front  sight;  you  will  have  to  hold 
your  whole  system  of  sighting  at  a  point  above  the 
place  where  you  want  to  hit  on  the  animal.  If  you 
are  a  man  of  the  old  open-sight  school,  this  may 
cost  you  a  head  of  game  or  two.  It  may  confuse 
you  and  make  you  irritable  for  a  time.  Your  theor- 
ist— or  your  man  who  has  grown  accustomed  to 
this  style  of  sighting  on  a  rifle — will  laugh  at  you 
and  tell  you  it  is  all  your  own  fault.  This  latter  is 
true,  though  not  comforting. 

The  great  argument  in  favor  of  the  old  open 
sights  is  the  argument  in  favor  of  all  fool-proof 
devices.  The  gun  always  ready  to  go  off  and  always 
safe  to  shoot  with  a  certain  per  cent  of  accuracy  is 
the  one  which  will  do  the  most  good  for  the  most 
men.  Finesse  in  trajectory  and  sights  is  some- 
thing for  those  more  concerned  with  writing  than 
with  shooting.  If  your  desire  is  not  to  be  a  faddist, 
or  even  not  to  be  so  much  an  expert  shot  as  an  effi- 
cient gentleman-sportsman  in  the  field,  you  will  per- 

162 


RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 

haps  do  better  to  consult  with  some  practical  hunter 
who  has  established  his  own  right  to  be  heard, 
rather  than  to  consult  the  theorist  or  those  who 
have  worked  things  out  academically  on  paper,  and 
not  on  the  hoof.  No  matter  which  school  you  shall 
elect  to  join,  whether  from  choice  or  from  necessity, 
you  will  find  plenty  of  weapons  today  which  will 
shoot  better  than  you  can — weapons  too  good  and 
too  destructive,  when  it  comes  to  that — too  certain, 
too  accurate  for  the  good  of  the  game  supply. 

There  is  one  system  of  sighting,  known  as  the 
V  M  system,  which  uses  the  aperture  idea  on  both 
rear  and  front  sights.  The  front  sight,  instead  of 
being  a  bead  or  knife  edge  or  a  dot,  is  simply  a  little 
ring.  All  aperture  sights — of  which  this  is  the  lat- 
est development — rest  upon  the  optical  fact  that 
when  the  eye  is  looking  through  any  small  circle  or 
hole,  it  unconsciously  looks  through  the  center  of 
that  hole.  When  you  first  begin  to  use  rather  large 
aperture  sights  you  see  all  the  outdoors,  and  it  does 
not  seem  to  you  that  you  can  by  any  possibility  be 
accurate;  but  when  you  look  through  the  center  of 
that  hole — and  you  do — you  unconsciously,  without 
mental  effort  at  all,  are  running  a  straight  line  from 
your  eye  to  the  point  you  want  to  hit,  and  there  is 
no  rim  of  metal  between  to  blur  or  bother  you. 

The  only  restriction  of  this  or  any  other  system 
163 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

of  aperture  sights  lies  in  the  fact  that  they  seem  to 
imply  a  certain  range,  a  certain  light,  stable  condi- 
tions. Now  the  actual  hunting  conditions  are  not  so 
stable.  A  mountain  sheep  is  not  going  to  wait  long 
for  any  theory  of  yours.  If  you  know  the  range 
and  if  your  aperture  sight  is  of  exactly  the  eleva- 
tion to  hit  just  where  your  eye  looks  through  the 
center  of  your  sight,  then  you  get  your  sheep.  It 
is  up  to  you  to  care  for  that. 

Hundreds  of  heads  of  big  game  are  killed  an- 
nually with  aperture  sights.  Also  hundreds  of  heads 
are  missed,  both  with  aperture  sights  and  open 
sights.  In  your  own  case,  simply  use  the  sights  in 
which  you  have  the  most  confidence,  and  use  them 
on  a  rifle  with  which  instinctively  and  unconsciously 
you  can  shoot  pretty  much  to  the  right  spot  quickly 
and  promptly.  In  other  words,  let  your  system  for 
rare  game  or  dangerous  game  be  as  nearly  fool- 
proof as  possible.  It  is  always  at  just  the  wrong 
time  that  theorists  get  balled  up.  Work  out  your 
own  theory  and  put  it  into  practice  so  regularly  that 
it  ceases  to  be  a  theory  but  remains  only  certainty 
and  confidence  on  your  part — a  system  that  works 
automatically,  like  the  steering  wheel  on  your  motor 
car. 

Most  of  us  use  our  rifles  for  nothing  more  dan- 
gerous than  deer.  How  should  the  hunting  rifle  of 

164 


RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 

the  American  sportsman  be  sighted  for  use  in  this 
country  ?  Certainly  you  do  not  now  need  to  have  any 
very  elaborate  rear  sight  provisions  for  elevation. 
The  buffaloes  and  antelopes  of  the  plains  are  gone. 
Such  game  as  you  will  find  in  ordinary  hunting  con- 
ditions will  rarely  ever  be  shot  at  over  two  hundred 
yards. 

For  the  average  American  hunting  rifle,  therefore, 
two  small  leaf  rear  sights  will  be  enough.  One  will 
do  for  close  range,  the-  other  for  mid-range  work. 
Say  that  you  set  your  first  leaf  so  that  it  will  shoot 
on  the  dot  at  seventy-five  yards.  You  will  find  that 
this  means,  with  the  average  high-power  rifle,  that 
there  is  scarcely  any  appreciable  variation  at  any 
range  inside  of  seventy-five  yards. 

Suppose,  for  instance,  that  a  bear  is  charging  and 
that  you  are  shooting  at  him  at  a  distance  of  twenty 
or  thirty  yards.  Certainly  you  do  not  want  to  shoot 
over  his  head,  and  certainly  you  do  not  want  to  be 
stopping  to  change  your  sights  at  that  time.  Now 
if  you  know  you  are  using  the  lower  leaf,  you  can 
be  sure  that  the  seventy-five-yard  sight  will  cover 
correctly  all  these  close  inside  shots. 

Again,  if  you  have  not  estimated  your  distance 
correctly,  your  seventy-five-yard  shot  will  still  keep 
you  within  the  killing  circle  up  to  double  that  dis- 
tance. If  an  animal  begins  to  look  too  far  away — 

165 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

and  it  may  be  one  hundred  and  fifty  or  three  hun- 
dred yards,  though  very  possibly  you  did  not  esti- 
mate the  distance  correctly — the  second  leaf,  sighted 
at,  say,  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards,  will  account 
for  a  hit  at  any  actual  range  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  up  to  two  hundred  yards,  or  perhaps  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty.  ' 

In  other  words,  these  two  sighting  ranges  of 
seventy-five  and  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  will 
give  you  hits  in  practical  hunting  conditions.  This 
is  a  very  fool-proof  system,  and  to  repeat,  only 
fool-proof  systems  are  of  much  use  in  the  field. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  you  do  not  kill  very  many 
deer  at  a  range  much  over  one  hundred  and  fifty 
yards.  If  Grandpa  could  take  his  old  squirrel  rifle 
with  no  fancy  sights  on  it  at  all  and  no  chance  to 
change  the  elevation  of  the  rear  sight,  you  could,  in 
a  pinch,  take  your  modern  small-bore,  high-power 
rifle,  with  its  tremendous  velocity  and  its  flat  tra- 
jectory, and  kill  game  with  it,  if  it  had  only  the  sort 
of  sights  that  Grandpa  used.  That  would  not  be  a 
bad  fool-proof  system  even  today.  We  are  rather 
running  wild  on  theory  nowadays ;  in  short,  we  have 
far  more  theory  than  we  have  game. 

A  successful  big  game  hunter  of  the  writer's  ac- 
quaintance, who  once  was  charged  by  a  grizzly  bear 
which  he  killed  at  twenty-five  yards,  says  that  in 

166 


RIFLES  FOR  BIG  GAME 

sighting  his  rifles  he  always  trains  them  to  hit  a 
spot  the  size  of  a  quarter  regularly  at  not  over 
twenty-five  yards.  You  see,  he  is  all  the  time  think- 
ing of  being  charged  by  a  grizzly  bear,  which  may 
not  happen  to  him  again  in  a  thousand  years.  This 
rifleman  "holds  for  the  shot"  at  longer  ranges. 
That  is  to  say,  his  sighting  unit  is  established  closer 
in  than  the  seventy-five  yard  range,  which  has  been 
recommended  above  for  the  average  man.  It  is  a 
system  which  works  with  him  and  perhaps  it  may 
work  with  you.  But  whatever  your  system,  learn  it 
and  stick  to  it,  so  that  in  the  field  your  confidence 
in  your  rifle  is  absolute.  Get  fool-proof  as  much 
as  you  can.  Don't  monkey;  don't  change;  don't 
fritter. 

What  battery  should  you  take  to  Africa,  if  you 
were  going  on  a  big  game  hunt  ?  I  have  asked  that 
question  of  a  number  of  my  friends  who  have 
hunted  in  that  country.  One,  as  I  have  stated  above, 
said  that  he  would  not  be  afraid  to  confine  his  equip- 
ment to  one  .405  American  repeater,  ammunition  all 
soft-nosed.  Ninety  per  cent  of  those  interrogated 
have  said  that  they  would  by  all  means  have  a  heavy 
double  express  rifle  for  close  and  dangerous  work. 
I  think  I  should  want  the  latter  gun  in  my  own 
case.  For  all  game  except  the  extremely  heavy 
game  such  as  elephant,  rhino,  and  buffalo,  there  is 

167 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

probably  no  better  sporting  rifle  made  today  than 
our  Springfield  army  weapon,  restocked  for  prac- 
tical sporting  purposes.  For  the  average  man  one 
modern  Springfield  and  one  double  express  would 
be  African  battery  enough.  At  the  extreme  limit 
these  two  guns,  with  the  addition  of  a  .405,  would 
be  all  the  equipment  one  would  need. 

The  guns  of  Speke  and  Grant  and  Baker — all 
those  old  chaps  who  used  to  raise  our  hair  in  horror 
when  we  were  boys — are  in  the  discard  now.  Be- 
fore you  undertake  to  rival  their  feats,  learn  the 
general  proposition  that  you  must  be  cool  at  the 
test  and  that  you  must  have  confidence  in  your  gun 
— must  know  what  it  and  yourself  will  do.  In  these 
present  days  of  almost  perfect  firearms  it  is  a  good 
deal  safer  to  bet  on  what  the  gun  will  do  than  on 
what  its  owner  will  in  actual  big  game  conditions. 
The  best  combination  for  either  factor,  or  for  both, 
is  that  which  most  closely  approximates  fool-proof- 
ness. 


IX 
WEALTH  ON  WINGS 


IX 
WEALTH   ON   WINGS 

WHEN  the  fathers  of  our  country  framed 
the  Articles  of  Confederation,  and  after- 
ward the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States,  they  suffered  under  the  embarrassment  of 
not  knowing  what  was  going  to  happen  in  the  fu- 
ture; an  embarrassment  we  share  today.  Casting 
about  for  some  scheme  which  would  give  every 
man  a  show  for  his  white  alley,  they  hit  on  the  idea 
that  in  union  there  is  strength — but  that  there 
ought  not  to  be  too  much  strength  in  the  union. 

The  war  between  state  rights  and  centralized  gov- 
ernment began  then  and  has  never  yet  ended.  There 
is  considerable  geography  in  the  United  States — • 
enough  to  furnish  different  environments,  and  dif- 
ferent environments  sometimes  have  led  to  different 
interests  and  different  opinions. 

In  general  terms  our  central  government,  rather 
than  our  state  governments,  stands  for  the  look 
ahead  and  for  conservation,  whereas  state  rights 
and  personal  liberty  concern  themselves  rather  with 

171 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

the  present  day  and  selfishly  profitable  affairs.  At 
times  it  has  taken  our  best  statesmen  to  reconcile 
our  twofold  form  of  government  with  conditions 
its  original  framers  could  not  have  foretold.  One 
of  the  best  compromises  we  have  yet  devised  is  the 
interstate  commerce  idea. 

Somewhat  crude  and  clumsy,  this  measure  means 
well  for  the  American  people,  and — sometimes  at 
least — it  stands  for  the  look  ahead  and  for  fair  play. 
Some  curious  applications  of  the  general  interstate 
idea  have  been  made.  From  the  Standard  Oil  Case 
to  the  Mann  Act,  it  has  been  used  as  the  vehicle 
for  carrying  across  state  lines  the  nation's  notions 
as  to  fair  play,  morality  and  sanity.  It  has  done 
•much  toward  safeguarding  the  property  of  all  the, 
people. 

As  to  the  natural  wealth  of  this  country,  there 
was  never  another  that  had  its  like  given  it  from  the 
hand  of  Nature.  Wealth  of  all  sorts  is  or  was  ours 
• — of  the  forest,  the  mine,  the  soil,  the  waters  and 
even  of  the  air.  Most  of  this  raw  wealth  was 
handled  under  local  or  state  legislation  because  it 
was  localized  itself.  Other  items  of  that  wealth, 
however,  could  not  be  localized,  but  crossed  from 
state  to  state. 

It  took  us  all  the  time  from  the  Articles  of  Con- 
federation to  the  year  1913  to  grow  wise  enough  to 

172 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

apply  to  this  interstate  wealth  the  doctrine  of  inter- 
state commerce.  Meantime  the  wealth  itself  had 
well-nigh  disappeared. 

The  wild  game  of  America  helped  to  settle  Amer- 
ica. In  the  times  when  it  was  hardest  for  a  fron- 
tiersman to  make  a  living,  the  wild  game  helped  him 
out.  The  rifle  went  with  ax  and  plow  across  this 
continent,  and  it  was  the  rifle  that  helped  the  ax 
and  plow  in  the  earlier  days  of  adversity.  At  first 
the  Americans  valued  only  the  large  game;  but  in 
time  they  began  to  use  wildfowl  as  food,  then  as  a 
means  of  sport.  Later  they  began  to  use  them  as 
articles  of  commerce. 

For  two  entire  generations  we  have  sought  to 
put  over  on  the  American  public  the  impossible  doc- 
trine that  a  man  can  reap  indefinitely  without  sow- 
ing at  all.  We  treated  our  wildfowl  as  we  would  a 
mine,  not  as  we  would  a  farm ;  on  the  basis  of  amor- 
tization and  not  of  renewal.  The  man  in  the  city 
felt  that  he  was  an  American  citizen,  and  had  as 
good  a  right  as  anyone  to  eat  wildfowl  if  he  had  the 
price  to  pay  for  it. 

There  sprang  up  a  large  class  of  professional 
gamekillers  who  encouraged  him  in  that  belief 
They  kept  on  reaping,  but  no  one  sowed.  We  did 
our  best  to  increase  our  poultry  supply,  our  supply 
of  beef  and  mutton  and  pork ;  but,  even  when  we  did 

173 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

our  best  at  such  increase,  we  saw  the  cost  of  all 
these  items  go  up  with  great  rapidity. 

What,  then,  could  be  expected  of  a  commodity 
which  was  treated  not  as  a  domestic  article  of  trade 
but  on  the  basis  of  a  mine — to  be  used  until  ex- 
hausted ?  We  treated  our  wildfowl  as  a  mine.  We 
applied  state  rights  to  this  wealth,  which  beyond 
all  other  commodities  was  itself  inherently  and  fun- 
damentally interstate  wealth. 

We  framed  a  multitude  of  state  laws,  based  on 
local  whims,  local  ignorance  and  local  selfishness, 
with  no  uniformity  even  as  between  states  in  prac- 
tically the  same  geographical  situation.  We  fol- 
lowed out  our  ancient  right  of  personal  privilege, 
until  we  faced  game  fields  suddenly  gone  barren. 
For  half  a  generation  thinking  men  have  known  that 
the  game  of  America  was  doomed. 

It  was  not  until  some  few  years  ago  that  John  F. 
Lacey,  a  congressman  from  Iowa,  conceived  the 
idea  that  game  shipped  across  the  state  line  became 
subject  to  the  watchful  care  of  the  nation  itself. 
The  Lacey  Act  may  be  called  the  first  step  toward 
national  intelligence  in  the  preservation  of  our  wild 
game.  Of  course,  its  effect  was  for  the  good  not 
only  of  wildfowl  but  of  upland  or  localized  game. 

The  Lacey  Act  did  not  prevent  the  marketing  of 
many  thousands  of  tons  of  wild  game,  shipped  le- 

174 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

gaily  or  illegally ;  but  it  did  prevent  the  marketing  of 
yet  other  thousands  of  tons  which  otherwise  would 
have  been  killed  and  shipped.  It  recognized  the  old 
doctrine  of  the  common  law,  that  wild  game  be- 
longed to  the  man  who  reduced  it  to  possession; 
but  it  recognized  also  the  right  of  the  several  states, 
under  their  police  power,  to  regulate  the  killing  and 
shipping  of  the  game,  and  the  accepted  doctrine 
that  ownership  of  game  rested  in  the  state. 

This  was  as  far  as  we  had  gotten  under  our  old, 
absurd,  gamewarden  system.  The  Lacey  Act  went 
a  step  further.  It  took  advantage  of  this  very  con- 
fusion and  lack  of  uniformity  in  state  laws  and 
forbade  the  handling  in  one  state  of  game  illegally 
killed  in  another.  It  was  a  clever  use  of  the  blanket 
utility  of  the  interstate  commerce  idea. 

Still  our  game  decreased,  upland  birds  and  wild- 
fowl as  well.  Under  our  system  of  state  license  we 
Americans  raised  nearly  two  million  dollars  a  year, 
ostensibly  to  protect  our  game.  We  protected  our 
politicians  instead.  It  became  obvious  that  a  few 
more  years  would  see  our  upland  game  wiped  out 
and  wildfowl  shooting  pretty  much  a  thing  of  the 
past. 

It  became  evident  that,  even  yet,  some  means 
must  be  found  by  which  the  wisdom  of  the  nation 
could  protect  the  American  people  against  the  folly 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

of  the  states — that  is  to  say,  against  their  own  in- 
dividual and  selfish  personal  folly.  We  had  nothing 
except  the  Lacey  Act  that  could  be  called  a  national 
game  law.  So  we  resorted  once  more  to  the  involu- 
tions of  the  Interstate  Commerce  Law.  Congress 
passed  the  so-called  Weeks-McLean  Law,  the  sim- 
plest and  most  obvious  national  measure  that  could 
well  be  devised.  It  sidestepped  the  whole  proposi- 
tion of  state  rights  and  personal  liberty,  and  ad- 
dressed itself  to  the  preservation  of  the  commodity 
that  beyond  all  others  is  interstate — essentially  and 
irrevocably  such. 

This  act  of  Congress  did  not  undertake  to  cross 
state  lines  and  tell  how  the  local  or  upland  game 
should  be  protected ;  but,  taking  this  broad  country 
just  as  the  wildfowl  themselves  take  it,  without  any 
visible  state  lines,  it  undertook  to  protect  our  migra- 
tory birds. 

This  law  passed  over  to  the  Department  of  Agri- 
culture the  regulation  of  the  use  of  that  form  of 
our  natural  resources  which  is  transient  and  migra- 
tory. We  do  not  really  own  that  wealth,  even  as  a 
nation.  It  is  raised  in  these  days  almost  wholly  out- 
side our  national  confines.  Canada  raises  most  of 
the  wildfowl  we  kill  today,  and  in  return  we  not 
only  give  Canada  no  reciprocity,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  for  generations  we  have  done  all  we  could  to 

176 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

lessen  the  supply  which  might  be  called  lent  to  us 
by  the  Northern  breeding  grounds  of  the  American 
wildfowl. 

At  no  time  in  the  history  of  our  country,  even 
'  before  our  own  better  breeding  grounds  were  wiped 
out,  did  we  ever  have  many  wildfowl  which  hatched 
in  our  country  and  afterward  passed  north  to  Can- 
ada. Young  wildfowl  hatched  in  the  Dakotas  or 
Minnesota  went  south,  but  came  back  the  following 
spring  to  their  own  habitat.  The  Weeks-McLean 
Law  is  the  first  American  game  law  that  has  ever 
given  Canada  a  square  deal.  Only  the  narrowest 
of  selfishness  can  fail  to  see  that  in  giving  Canada 
this  square  deal  we  help  not  only  Canada  but  both 
Canada  and  ourselves,  since  we  are  simply  giving  up 
our  old  foolish  doctrine  that  you  can  continually 
reap  and  never  sow.  The  great  sowing  grounds  to- 
day lie  in  Canada. 

Before  the  passage  of  this  national  measure  we 
had  been  doing  the  best  we  knew  how  to  save  some 
of  our  migratory  birds,  whether  by  state  or  national 
laws.  We  have  established  within  the  last  few 
years  forty-six  national  bird  refuges.  From  time 
to  time  in  the  past,  large  private  estates  have  been 
made  game  refuges  or  shooting  preserves;  but  you 
can  measure  within  the  span  of  the  past  few  years 
the  first  American  movement  toward  a  private  game 

177 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

refuge.  That  was  something  entirely  new  in  Amer- 
ica. 

All  these  northbound  fowl,  however,  going  north 
under  the  general  wisdom  of  the  proposition  that  if 
you  reap  you  must  sow,  reach  Canada  today  less 
such  numbers  as  are 'killed  in  the  spring  shooting  of 
the  United  States.  Our  state  laws  began  to  restrict 
the  sale  of  game  very  sharply;  but  it  was  realized 
that  the  next  great  agency  of  destruction  was  the 
spring  shooting.  We  could  never  get  at  that — could 
not  even  get  state  laws  enacted  to  abolish  it,  weak 
as  state  laws  always  have  proved  themselves. 

It  was  then  that  there  came  this  simple  and  ob- 
vious Weeks-McLean  Law,  which  solved  at  one 
stroke  this  whole  vexing  problem  which  had  been 
left  unsettled  for  a  generation.  In  combination 
with  all  these  other  gradually  stiffening  measures  of 
protection,  it  gave  the  people  of  America  for  the 
first  time  reason  to  believe  that  we  are  to  have  a 
reign  of  law  more  compatible  with  our  intelligence 
as  a  people. 

Let  us  not  use  the  much-bandied  name  of  con- 
servation but  just  call  this  an  example  of  good  horse 
sense.  It  gives  his  equity  in  the  game  to  the  man 
who  has  time  to  shoot  and  to  the  man  in  the  city 
who  has  not  time  to  shoot  but  who,  none  the  less, 
has  a  right  to  his  undivided  interest,  his  share  in  the 

178 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

surplus,  his  interest  in  the  good-will  of  this  going 
institution.  It  is  fair  all  round  and  equally  fair 
for  all. 

The  framers  of  shooting  regulations  under  this 
law  hit  on  the  same  geographical  differences  which, 
before  now,  have  made  trouble  under  our  twofold 
form  of  government.  They  made  their  compromise, 
oddly  enough,  practically  along  what  we  might  call 
the  Mason  and  Dixon  Line,  and  divided  the  country 
into  two  zones,  practically  along  the  latitude  of  the 
Ohio  River,  naming  the  group  of  the  northern  zone 
by  states  and  that  of  the  southern  zone  in  the  same 
way. 

In  broad  simplicity  the  dates  for  killing  wildfowl 
were  made  the  same  for  all  the  states  in  the  northern 
zone ;  and  a  different  date,  uniform  for  all  states  in 
the  southern  zone,  was  established,  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  migratory  birds  advance  southward  some- 
what with  the  season.  For  instance,  after  the  birds 
have  left  Illinois  altogether  they  may  be  most  abun- 
dant in  southern  Texas.  The  harvesting  date  would 
not  be  the  same  in  both  sections.  So,  following  a 
broad  common  sense  which  looked  toward  the  wip- 
ing out  of  a  number  of  confusing  local  dates,  the 
National  Government  put  its  hand  to  a  sort  of  Mis- 
souri Compromise  which  is  very  apt  to  stick. 

Perhaps  many  of  the  men  who  actually  voted  for 
179 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

this  bill  in  Congress  did  not  know  how  hard  a  fight 
had  been  waged  by  a  few  public-spirited  men  in  the 
cause  of  game  protection  in  this  country.  Not  all 
of  these  men  were  sportsmen.  I  see  no  reason  for 
setting  the  sportsman  apart  in  a  class,  or  regarding 
him  as  a  sacred  object  individually  entitled  to 
more  benefits  than  anyone  else.  The  weakest  part 
in  many  state  laws  was  that  they  had  this  touch 
of  class  legislation  in  them — or,  at  least,  the  sports- 
men often  sought  to  put  it  there.  Our  whole  theory 
of  game  laws  was  childish ;  it  sought  to  eat  the  cake 
and  yet  have  it,  meantime  keeping  the  other  fellow 
from  getting  any  cake. 

It  was  by  no  means  sportsmen  alone  who  passed 
the  Weeks-McLean  Law  or  built  the  sentiment  that 
made  it  possible.  Sportsmen  did  their  share  in  pro- 
portion as  they  were  broad-minded  and  not  selfish. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  some  of  the  wealthy  shooting 
clubs  located  in  the  migratory  flyway  of  the  wild- 
fowl, clubs  whose  members  may  be  called  sports- 
men, have  been  most  prominent  in  antagonizing  the 
regulations  of  the  Department  of  Agriculture  in  so 
far  as  they  prohibit  spring  shooting  of  wildfowl. 

We  do  not  need  to  classify  ourselves  either  as 
being  or  not  being  sportsmen  in  our  handling  of  this 
question.  It  is  simply  one  of  wisdom  in  taking 
care  of  a  part  of  the  wealth  of  the  people  at  large. 

180 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

Every  man  is  interested  in  that,  whether  or  not  he 
owns  a  gun  or  has  time  to  use  it. 

At  one  time  we  raised  a  great  many  wildfowl 
within  our  own  national  confines.  Most  of  these 
were  bred  along  a  north  and  south  line  passing 
through  what  we  call  the  states  of  the  Middle  West. 
The  Atlantic  States  had  splendid  shooting  for  gen- 
erations, but  the  birds  of  Currituck  and  Chesapeake 
were  bred  either  north  of  our  northern  boundary 
line  or  in  grounds  very  close  below  it.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  the  scoters — known  as  seaducks  along  the 
Atlantic  coast — fly  for  thousands  of  miles  due  south- 
east from  the  regions  where  they  breed. 

The  line  of  flight  of  the  canvasbacks  and  red- 
heads has  in  it  less  latitude  and  more  longitude;  it 
is  flatter,  and  more  to  the  east  than  the  southeast. 
These  birds  formerly  bred  in  great  numbers  in  the 
Dakotas,  Minnesota,  Saskatchewan,  Alberta  and 
Manitoba.  They  hang  round  the  wild-celery  lakes, 
even  in  their  migrations ;  and,  having  learned  where 
abundance  of  wild  celery  was  to  be  had  on  the  Atlan- 
tic coast,  they  set  up  their  ancient  trading  line  be- 
tween these  breeding  and  feeding  grounds  until  they 
were  shot  out  on  both. 

The  main  breeding  grounds  for  all  the  wildfowl 
of  the  country  have  always  been  in  the  central  or 
western  part  of  this  continent — say,  from  Mason 

181 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

and  Dixon's  Line  north  to  the  Arctic  Ocean  Wood 
ducks  and  most  of  the  marsh  docks  formerly  bred 
in  large  numbers  in  Illinois,  Indiana  and  Iowa.  Few 
breed  there  now.  Wild  geese  formerly  bred  in  Iowa. 
Perhaps  none  has  been  known  to  do  so  in  any  recent 
year.  Minnesota  furnished  large  areas  of  country 
suitable  for  nesting  grounds,  and  the  Dakotas  still 
larger.  A  certain  number  of  local  birds,  as  they  are 
known,  are  reared  there  every  year  even  yet;  but 
only  a  fraction  of  the  earlier  numbers. 

The  railroad  has  been  the  great  enemy  of  migra- 
tory fowL  Our  transcontinental  lines  did  their 
share;  and  when  the  Canadian  Pacific  Railroad 
passed  westward  it  opened  up  to  settlement  and  to 
shooting  enormous  areas  of  the  very  finest  of  the 
breeding  grounds  of  this  entire  continent — much 
better  than  those  Arctic  or  sub-Arctic  regions  which 
vaguely  we  have  always  thought  to  be  the  inexhaust- 
ible source  of  our  wildfowL 

When  these  railroads  went  into  Saskatchewan 
and  Alberta — the  Canadian  Pacific,  the  Canadian 
Northern,  the  Grand  Trunk  Pacific,  with  their  trans- 
continental lines,  their  north-and-south  feeders,  and 
their  recent  extensions  into  the  late  wilderness  of 
the  Peace  River  country — we  Americans  did  not 
repine,  but  exulted;  and  we  went  on  with  our  old 
theory  that  in  order  to  get  shooting  all  you  had  to 

182 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

do  was  to  go  West.  We  went  over  into  Canada— 
those  who  could  afford  it — and  we  shot  very  bliss- 
fully for  a  decade  or  two,  after  seeing  the  game 
decrease  in  Minnesota  and  the  Dakotas. 

For  a  long  time  we  had  fine  goose  shooting  in 
Canada  on  the  stubbles — a  sport  that  once  flourished 
in  the  Dakotas,  but  is  now  not  known  there  in  its 
earlier  excellence.  Then  the  word  was  passed  that 
the  geese  had  "changed  their  line  of  flight"  and  that 
it  was  hard  to  get  any  of  the  old  stubble  shooting. 
Saskatchewan  went  on  marketing  her  game  with 
certain  restrictions.  Then,  little  by  little,  even  in 
Canada — and  that  in  those  portions  of  Canada 
which  are  the  very  best  of  all  the  breeding  grounds 
on  the  whole  continent — word  was  passed  that  the 
ducks  were  not  quite  so  abundant  as  they  ought  to 
be,  for  some  reason  or  other.  Perhaps  their  line  of 
flight  also  had  changed ! 

We  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  the  general 
question  of  the  wildfowl  supply  even  then.  Those 
of  us  who  could  afford  it  went  down  to  the  Gulf 
coast  in  the  winter-time  and  shot  in  Louisiana  or 
Texas.  We  sent  back  word  that  there  were  just  as 
many  ducks  as  ever — because,  fatuously,  we  saw 
gathered  there  in  the  sharply  restricted  winter  feed- 
ing grounds  all  the  output  of  the  sharply  restricted 
summer  breeding  grounds.  It  is  just  as  if  there 

183 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

should  be  a  big  corn  crop  in  Iowa,  and  little  or  no 
crop  in  any  other  state  of  the  West;  and  as  if  we 
should  stand  in  the  middle  of  that  corn  crop  and  say 
there  was  just  as  much  corn  as  there  ever  was.  You 
would  not  think  that  human  beings  could  be  so  fool- 
ish; but  we  were  just  as  foolish  as  that. 

We  never  took  into  consideration  the  scarcity  of 
birds  elsewhere,  and  we  never  investigated  the  enor- 
mous lessening  of  the  best  breeding  grounds  of  this 
continent.  The  more  intelligent  of  us  perhaps,  if 
pressed  too  hard  on  the  question,  would  have  said : 

"Pshaw!  What  is  the  use  worrying  about  it? 
There  are  millions  of  acres  of  breeding  grounds  in 
Northern  Canada,  in  the  Arctic  wilderness,  where 
no  one  will  ever  bother  the  birds." 

It  is  in  regard  to  this  latter  supposition,  and  be- 
cause of  it,  that  the  writer  wishes  to  offer  this  study 
of  the  wildfowl  supply  of  the  American  continent. 
Now  it  is  not  true  that  we  shall  ever  again  have 
in  the  Far  North,  or  anywhere  else,  as  good  breed- 
ing grounds  as  those  which  have  largely  been  wiped 
out  just  south  of  and  just  north  of  the  dividing  line 
between  this  country  and  Canada ;  that  was  the  best 
nesting  ground  on  this  continent  and  we  have  noth- 
ing to  take  its  place.  I  say  this  after  a  journey 
from  the  American  line  to  the  Arctic  Ocean,  along 
the  natural  flyway  of  our  wildfowl,  which  follows 

184 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

the  Mississippi  Valley  in  this  country  in  large  part, 
and  in  large  part  the  Athabasca-Mackenzie  River 
valley  in  the  Dominion  of  Canada.  By  the  latter 
valley  I  mean  the  waterway  of  the  Athabasca,  Slave, 
and  Mackenzie  rivers,  with  their  adjacent  lakes  and 
streams. 

Very  happily  for  us  all  there  are  breeding  grounds 
in  that  Far-Northern  country  where  the  railroad 
never  will  go;  but  even  this  statement  should  be 
made  carefully.  One  of  the  greatest  wildfowl  re- 
gions of  that  northern  country  is  in  the  Peace  River 
delta  and  round  Lake  Athabasca,  about  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles  north  of  Edmonton,  Alberta. 
Especially  is  the  fall  goose  shooting  in  that  country 
— on  white  geese  or  wavies — superlatively  good, 
though  these  birds  do  not  nest  there.  But  when  we 
reflect  that  within  two  or  three  years  there  may  be 
a  railroad  built  to  MacMurray,  which  will  bring  the 
traveler  within  less  than  two  hundred  miles  of 
steamboat  transport  to  Lake  Athabasca,  at  Fort 
Chippewyan,  we  begin  to  see  that  we  ought  not  to 
prophesy  too  sweepingly  regarding  the  eternal  isola- 
tion of  this  breeding  ground. 

Again,  the  southern  and  western  shores  of  Hud- 
son's Bay  proper  have  been  fine  nesting  grounds  for 
numbers  of  geese  and  different  species  of  ducks 
which  come  into  our  country  in  the  fall.  You  would 

185 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

not  think  these  in  much  danger  from  the  sportsman 
tourist,  did  you  not  stop  to  think  that  they  are 
building  a  railroad  to  the  western  shore  of  Hud- 
son Bay. 

Do  not  be  too  sure  that  even  this  country  will 
always  remain  isolated  and  unmolested.  The  line 
of  perpetual  safety  must  be  placed  much  more  than 
five  hundred  miles  north  of  Edmonton ;  and  Edmon- 
ton is  a  considerable  distance  north  of  our  northern 
boundary.  •  .  ., 

There  remain  the  big  breeding  grounds  more  or 
less  vaguely  supposed  to  exist  toward  the  mouth 
of  the  Mackenzie  River.  Here,  to  be  sure,  latitude 
and  geography  conspire  against  the  sportsman  tour- 
ist. If  he  remained  in  that  country  long  enough 
to  get  good  shooting  in  the  late  summer  he  might 
not  get  out  that  winter.  The  wildfowl  come  south 
far  faster  than  steamboats  or  scows  on  the  tracking 
line.  But  that  breeding  ground  is  far  more  re- 
stricted and  less  prolific  than  it  is  generally  sup- 
posed to  be. 

Another  great  northern  breeding  ground  we  have 
been  accustomed  to  locate  vaguely  on  the  Yukon 
River.  Toward  the  mouth  of  that  river,  just  as  in 
the  delta  of  the  Mackenzie  River,  there  are  good 
wildfowl  nesting  grounds ;  but  neither  of  these  riv- 
ers is  a  continuous  nesting  ground  for  wildfowl. 

186 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

The  greater  portion  of  the  shores  of  the  thousand 
miles  of  these  great  waterways  is,  on  the  contrary, 
entirely  unsuited  as  breeding  grounds  for  wildfowl. 
These  birds  must  have  low  and  marshy  country,  and 
not  rocky  shores  or  vast  flats  covered  with  intermin- 
able growths  of  spruce  and  cottonwood  and  willows. 

The  truth  is — or  the  truth  as  I  conceive  it  to  be 
after  a  journey  to  the  mouth  of  the  Mackenzie, 
thence  west  to  the  Yukon,  and  south  to  the  Pacific 
Ocean — that  only  a  relatively  very  small  portion  of 
that  great  wilderness  country  is  suitable  for  raising 
wildfowl.  I  do  not  believe  the  percentage  of  such 
acreage  is  anywhere  near  so  large — perhaps  it  is 
not  one-fifth  or  one-tenth  as  large — as  the  percent- 
age of  acreage  naturally  found  in  the  Dakotas,  Sas- 
katchewan, and  Alberta. 

Certainly,  though  the  season  was  at  that  time  bet- 
ter advanced  so  that  the  young  birds  began  to  show, 
I  saw  more  ducks  in  the  ponds  along  the  Canadian 
Pacific  Railroad  in  three  days  in  August  than  I  had 
seen  in  three  months  in  all  that  Far-Northern  coun- 
try. I  do  not  offer  this  as  a  conclusive  argument 
at  all,  but  as  a  phenomenon  easily  explained;  yet 
nothing  on  my  entire  northern  trip  was  more  disap- 
pointing than  this  conclusion,  that  we  all  had  been 
overestimating  the  extent  and  productiveness  of 
these  vaguely  located  northern  breeding  grounds. 

187 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

Even  on  the  great  marshes  round  Lake  Athabasca 
we  saw  very  few  ducks.  This  was  very  largely 
because  the  young  birds  were  still  in  the  grass  and 
not  yet  flying;  but  we  talked  with  the  Indians  and 
half  breeds  round  Chippewyan  and  they  all  said 
the  birds  were  not  so  numerous  as  formerly.  They 
apply  this  statement  also  to  birds  bred  north  of 
there. 

To  be  sure,  old  Peter  Loutit,  the  champion  goose- 
killer  of  Chippewyan,  killed  eight  hundred  and 
fifty  white  geese  on  his  hunt  last  fall,  putting  them 
up  for  winter  meat;  but  Peter  has  shot  for  years 
in  this  locality  and  he  says  the  geese  are  by  no  means 
so  abundant  as  they  used  to  be. 

It  was  one  of  my  purposes  in  making  this  trip 
down  the  Mackenzie  River  to  get  some  information 
on  these  very  questions;  so  I  made  careful  inquiry 
of  all  available  sources  of  information  at  all  the 
northern  posts  where  we  stopped  in  our  journey  of 
two  thousand  miles  north  of  Edmonton,  to  the  Arc- 
tic Ocean.  The  traders,  the  white  residents,  the  In- 
dians, and  the  half  breeds  all  agreed,  whenever  asked 
the  question,  that  both  ducks  and  geese  seem  to  be 
passing  away. 

This  information,  the  accuracy  and  general  ap- 
plicability of  which  could  not  be  doubted,  came  in 
very  disconcerting  fashion.  Like  everyone  else  I 

188 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

had  thought  that  all  the  ducks  and  geese  had  to  do 
was  to  go  up  north  somewhere  and  lay  eggs  for 
you  and  me.  They  are  doing  nothing  of  the  kind  up 
there,  compared  with  their  former  performances. 

Now  those  people  up  north,  a  great  many  of  them, 
never  heard  of  Texas  or  Louisiana  and  would  not 
be  able  to  tell  where  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  is.  They 
do  not  know  anything  about  the  number  of  birds  we 
shoot.  All  they  know  is  that  they  do  not  have  so 
many  birds  as  they  formerly  did. 

Without  a  doubt  or  question  we  have  killed  their 
birds ;  they  have  not  killed  ours.  Our  winter  shoot- 
ing, our  spring  shooting,  our  market  shooting — • 
those  are  the  things  which  have  cut  down  the  nat- 
ural food  of  many  an  Indian  village  in  the  Far 
North. 

One  of  our  favorite  assertions,  used  to  justify  us 
in  shooting  when  and  how  we  like,  was  the  old 
myth  that  the  Indians  destroy  the  ducks  up  north 
by  gathering  their  eggs.  They  do  gather  a  few 
ducks'  eggs,  it  is  true,  and  they  are  not  very  par- 
ticular about  the  freshness  of  them ;  but  there  is  no 
regular  or  steady  industry  in  that  line,  and  the  eggs 
are  not  regarded  as  a  regular  form  of  food  but  an 
incidental  item. 

An  Indian  is  very  lazy.  If  he  can  get  anything 
to  eat  round  the  post,  or  if  his  nets  are  bringing  him 

189 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

in  fish,  he  is  not  going  to  bother  to  tramp  round  a 
marsh  hunting  for  ducks'  eggs;  and  ducks  do  not 
there,  any  more  than  with  us,  make  their  nests  in 
the  dooryard.  The  great  support  of  the  Indians  of 
the  north  is  fish;  they  take  incredible  quantities  of 
whitefish,  inconnu,  and  other  food  fishes.  An  In- 
dian busy  watching  his  nets  is  not  going  to  bother 
much  with  gathering  ducks'  eggs. 

The  high  cost  of  ammunition — ten  cents,  twelve 
and  a  half  cents,  fifteen  cents  for  a  loaded  shotgun 
shell,  and  a  proportionately  high  cost  of  loose  am- 
munition for  muzzle-loaders — is  the  best  reason 
why  the  Indian  does  not  kill  more  ducks.  In  the 
lower  posts,  when  the  flight  of  geese  and  ducks  is 
on,  he  will  shoot  for  his  winter's  meat  to  some 
extent;  and  some  of  the  best  duckshots  I  ever  saw 
were  halfbreeds  in  Alberta  and  Saskatchewan — 
some  of  them  market  shooters  for  white  men.  The 
total  number  of  wildfowl  killed  by  all  the  Indians 
of  the  north  does  not  compare  with  the  number  we 
kill  in  the  winter  and  spring. 

To  begin  with,  there  are  not  nearly  so  many  In- 
dians up  in  that  country  as  you  would  think — per- 
haps not  over  fifty  families  tributary  to  one  post, 
twice  that  number  to  another;  we  never,  even  in 
treaty-payment  times,  saw  over  three  hundred  In- 
dians together  at  any  one  time  at  any  one  place. 

190 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

Personally  I  never  saw  a  duck  or  goose  feather 
round  an  Indian  camp  all  the  time  I  was  in  the 
north.  To  be  sure  it  was  not  yet  time  for  them  to 
begin  their  fall  shooting;  and  to  be  sure  I  was  not 
along  the  Arctic  coast  where  the  Eskimos  kill  many 
wildfowl  in  the  spring — that  is  to  say,  many  in 
proportion  to  their  number,  though  the  total  num- 
ber of  Eskimos  is  not  very  large,  counting  all  of 
both  bands — the  Kogwolloks  and  the  Nanatamas. 
But  I  got  the  news  of  the  Arctic  coast. 

Old  Peter  Loutit,  at  Chippewyan,  could  not 
have  told  us  where  the  white  geese  or  wavies  bred, 
except  that  it  was  somewhere  in  the  Arctics.  Nei- 
ther could  you  or  I  have  told  him  much  more  defi- 
nitely. The  white  geese  do  not  breed  anywhere  on 
the  Mackenzie,  but  somewhere  on  the  islands  north 
of  the  Mackenzie  and  perhaps  on  a  limited  part  of 
the  coast  east  of  the  mouth  of  the  Mackenzie. 

Now  within  the  last  few  years  numbers  of  whal- 
ing ships  have  been  wintering  at  Herschel  Island, 
just  west  of  the  Mackenzie;  and  these  whaling  ships 
prowl  off  to  the  east  and  northeast  after  their  game, 
going  where  the  Eskimos  cannot  go.  In  this  way 
the  whalers  have  located  some  of  the  breeding 
grounds  of  the  white  geese.  The  whaling  settle- 
ment at  Herschel  has  sometimes  contained  between 
two  hundred  and  fifty  and  five  hundred  men.  It 

191 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

may  be  imagined  that  in  the  spring  these  men  would 
be  apt  to  fancy  wildfowl  and  wildfowl  eggs. 

The  report  was  common  on  the  Mackenzie  that 
the  whalers  had  discovered  where  the  white  geese 
nest  and  that  in  the  spring  they  used  a  good  many 
of  their  eggs.  The  very  color  of  this  bird,  like  that 
of  the  white  fox,  seems  to  mark  it  as  the  most  north- 
erly example  of  its  family.  We  may  fairly  say, 
therefore,  that  the  white  man  has,  to  some  extent 
at  least,  gotten  in  on  the  most  northerly  breeding 
grounds  of  our  wildfowl.  The  last  secret  is  known, 
the  last  natural  sanctuary  is  invaded. 

And  it  is  the  white  man  who  is  to  be  dreaded.  In 
old  times,  when  the  natives  of  this  continent  lived 
altogether  on  wild  game,  they  never  wiped  out  or 
perceptibly  decreased  a  wild  species.  They  had  no 
cold  storage  and  no  endless  market;  and  they  were 
lazy  and  lived  from  hand  to  mouth;  they  did  not 
waste  and  they  did  not  kill  for  the  sake  of  killing. 
These  same  traits  exist  today  among  the  natives  of 
the  north  all  the  way  to  the  Arctic  Ocean.  What 
they  kill  may  be  called  negligible  as  a  factor  of 
decrease  in  migratory  fowl.  They  kill  fish,  moose, 
caribou,  big  stuff,  and  live  along  the  lines  of  least 
resistance.  It  is  folly  to  accuse  them  of  destroying 
the  wildfowl,  for  they  do  not.  This  is  the  judg- 
ment of  all  the  white  men  who  live  in  that  country 

192 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

and  who  have,  therefore,  had  better  opportunity  for 
being  posted  than  anyone  could  have  who  simply 
passes  through  on  a  hurried  trip. 

However  great  or  small  the  native  factor  of 
destruction  may  be,  it  is  not  more  apt  to  lessen  than 
to  increase  in  extent;  and  taking  the  net  results  of 
mixed  white  and  native  occupancy  of  that  upper 
country,  in  these  days  of  gradually  improving  trans- 
portation and  gradually  increasing  knowledge  about 
the  upper  shooting  grounds,  we  are  not  to  expect 
that  the  number  of  wildfowl  killed  in  the  Far  North 
will  lessen,  but  that  it  will  increase.  That  is  still  a 
great  wilderness,  but  the  white  man  is  edging  into 
it  all  the  time. 

As  to  the  country  itself,  as  we  saw  it,  we  passed 
through  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  miles  of  country 
far  more  suitable  for  moose  and  lynx  than  for 
geese  and  ducks.  Once  in  a  while  we  would  see  a 
low  and  marshy  shore,  but  this  did  not  often  hap- 
pen. Of  course  there  are  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  miles  on  both  sides  of  the  river  of  which  the 
traveler  knows  nothing  and  of  which  no  one  knows 
very  much;  but  the  consensus  of  opinion,  made  up 
from  reports  of  the  Geologic  Survey  and  from  those 
of  hunters  and  trappers,  by  no  means  indicates  that 
Upper  Canada  is  a  vast  marsh,  suitable  for  a  breed- 
ing ground  of  wildfowl. 

193 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

There  are  thousands  of  miles  of  mountains  in 
that  country,  hundreds  of  thousands  of  miles  of 
forests,  and  thousands  of  miles  of  flat  barren  soil. 
Every  one  of  these  miles  is  to  be  subtracted  from 
the  acreage  of  the  potential  breeding  grounds  of  the 
mythical  North,  regarding  which  our  information 
has  been  so  vague. 

Off  to  the  east  of  the  Mackenzie  River,  east  of 
Great  Slave  Lake  and  Great  Bear  Lake,  in  the  Bar- 
ren Grounds  country,  and  between  that  and  Hudson 
Bay,  there  is  a  vast  region  of  which  little  is  known. 
Reports  coming  from  Indians  or  others  do  not  in- 
dicate that  it  swarms  with  wildfowl;  in  fact,  we 
found  the  greater  part  of  the  country  through  which 
we  traveled  on  foot  in  those  upper  latitudes  to  be 
covered  not  with  marshes  but  with  tundra.  The 
tundra  covers  the  foothills  and  the  mountain  slopes, 
and  the  flats  along  the  rivers  as  well. 

In  brief  the  tundra  is  moss  that  grows  in  tussocks 
or  niggerheads — tetes  des  femmes,  the  French  call 
them.  These  womanheads  rise  out  of  the  icy  mire 
or  cold  water;  or  the  solid  covering  of  the  moss 
rests  practically  on  ice  that  does  not  melt.  A  few 
shrubs  grow  up  through  this  moss.  The  tundra  is 
a  good  place  for  rabbits  or  caribou  or  other  rumi- 
nants, but  is  useless  for  wildfowl. 

And  it  must  be  remembered  that  when  they  go 
194 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

north  to  the  nesting  grounds  the  ducks  and  geese 
are  obliged  to  have  food  in  the  summer  as  much  as 
in  the  winter.  It  would  be  foolish  to  make  any 
sweeping  statements  about  a  country  so  large  that 
no  one  has  even  explored  it;  but  what  I  want  to 
say  is  that  you  can  travel  for  two  thousand  miles 
directly  up  the  center  of  the  north  and  south  fly  way 
of  the  fowl  and  you  will  see  mighty  few  feeding 
grounds  or  nesting 'grounds.  I  do  not  want  to  say 
anything  about  what  we  ought  to  have  seen  or  might 
have  seen,  but  only  about  what  we  did  not  see. 

Anyone  interested  in  a  systematic  study  of  the 
bird  life  of  that  upper  country  should  get  the  report 
of  Mr.  Edward  A.  Preble,  of  the  Biological  Survey, 
which  is  printed  as  Bulletin  Number  27  of  the  De- 
partment of  Agriculture,  under  the  title,  "North 
American  Fauna."  Mr.  Preble  spent  considerable 
time  in  the  Athabasca-Mackenzie  region.  He  is  a 
scientist  and  an  observer,  and  he  has  brought  out 
the  most  comprehensive  knowledge  regarding  the 
migratory  birds,  as  well  as  all  the  other  game  of 
that  country,  which  thus  far  has  been  put  into  print. 
His  report  is  worth  having  in  the  library  of  any 
American  sportsman.  It  may  perhaps  be  more  reas- 
suring than  my  own,  and  it  certainly  will  be  more 
comprehensive  and  more  apt  to  be  accurate.  It 
covers,  however,  only  examples  of  actual  phenom- 

195 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

ena  seen  on  the  ground;  and  Mr.  Preble  concerns 
himself  more  with  the  species  and  the  habits  of  the 
species  and  less  with  the  general  totals  of  supply 
and  demand. 

By  the  time  we  had  crossed  the  Rocky  Mountains 
on  our  trip  it  was  late  in  July.  By  that  time  we 
saw  a  great  many  young  mallards  beginning  to  fly ; 
and  at  a  point  on  the  Porcupine  River  about  a  hun- 
dred miles  east  of  its  junction  with  the  Yukon  we 
saw  rather  large  numbers  of  mallards.  At  one 
or  two  of  the  bayous  a  gun  or  two  might  have  had 
a  very  good  shoot;  but  in  the  old  ducking  days  on 
the  Kankakee  marsh,  had  we  seen  no  more  mallards 
than  we  saw  there  on  the  Porcupine,  we  should  not 
have  considered  the  flight  by  any  means  a  good  one. 

On  the  Yukon  Flats,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Porcu- 
pine River,  there  is  supposed  to  be  quite  an  extensive 
breeding  ground  of  wildfowl;  but  the  Yukon  be- 
tween that  point  and  Dawson  was  a  swift  stream, 
broken  into  many  channels,  flowing  between  willow- 
covered  islands  which  did  not  look  marshy,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  at  that  time  of  year  were  quite  dry 
and  without  probable  duck  food  to  any  great  extent. 

Without  doubt  a  large  part  of  the  California  duck 
life  breeds  along  the  upper  Yukon,  but  I  do  not 
think  we  were  far  enough  down  the  river  to  get  into 
any  very  considerable  breeding  grounds.  In  short, 

196 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

and  to  repeat,  out  of  the  whole  five  thousand  miles 
of  waterway  from  Edmonton  and  round  to  Skag- 
way,  there  was  very,  very  little  visible  nesting 
ground  for  wildfowl.  This  was  a  great  surprise 
to  me,  for,  in  common  with  almost  all  other  Amer- 
ican sportsmen,  I  was  of  the  vague  belief  that 
pretty  much  all  that  upper  country  was  ex- 
clusively devoted  to  raising  ducks  for  us  Ameri- 
cans to  shoot. 

The  delta  of  the  Mackenzie  is  quite  a  large  region 
— say,  a  hundred  miles  by  seventy-five — covered 
by  scores  of  channels  and  occasional  marshes  or 
lakes.  Along  the  main  channels,  however,  you  will 
see  the  banks  rather  sharp-cut  through  a  deep,  rich, 
alluvial  soil  covered  with  heavy  willows.  We 
passed  through  only  the  southern  edge  of  the  delta 
but  our  local  advice  was  pretty  accurate.  It  ran  to 
the  effect  that  ducks  were  scarcer  than  they  had  been 
and  that  there  never  had  been  any  vast,  continuous 
rookery  or  breeding  ground  in  that  part  of  the 
world. 

In  general  it  is  at  the  mouths  or  deltas  of  these 
great  northern  rivers  that  the  largest  breeding 
grounds  are  found.  It  is  there  that  the  current  loses 
its  velocity  and  through  many  ages  has  deposited 
silt,  out  of  which  grow  grasses  and  plants  suitable 
for  food  of  the  wildfowl. 

197 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

The  great  delta  of  the  Peace  River,  the  Quatres 
Fourches  country  of  Lake  Athabasca,  the  delta  of 
the  Slave  River  where  it  debouches  into  Great  Slave 
Lake — all  these  are  low,  flat  areas  showing  seas  of 
marshes  and  grasses.  Perhaps  these,  with  the  delta 
of  the  Mackenzie,  and  that  of  the  Yukon,  and  cer- 
tain less  well-known  tracts  on  the  west  shore  of 
Hudson  Bay,  may  be  called  the  greatest  of  all  these 
northern  breeding  grounds.  It  is  not  the  case  that 
the  wildfowl  go  north  as  far  as  they  can  get  before 
they  lay  their  eggs.  Read  Mr.  Preble's  report  and 
you  will  find  how  the  wildfowl  district  themselves 
in  that  upper  country. 

Aside  from  these  great  natural  breeding  grounds, 
the  total  mileage  of  which  is  altogether  less  than 
has  been  supposed,  all  the  remainder  of  the  wildfowl 
which  come  to  us  from  that  upper  wilderness  must 
breed  round  the  edges  of  the  smaller  lakes,  or  else 
in  regions  not  yet  known.  This  latter  supposition 
is  not  worth  considering.  Taking  out  of  the  sum 
total  of  known  and  admitted  northern  breeding 
grounds  all  this  impossible  country,  such  as  the 
tundra  and  the  plateaus,  the  mountains  and  the  dry 
alluvial  banks,  we  shall  have  left  no  such  vast  area 
of  nesting  ground  as  we  have  all  supposed. 

I  am  convinced  that  this  is  an  accurate  and  con- 
servative statement ;  and  I  am  of  the  belief  that  the 

198 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

best  nesting  grounds  for  wildfowl  this  country  ever 
had  are  in  lower  and  not  upper  Canada,  are  now 
easily  accessible  by  means  of  railroad  communica- 
tion, and  are  practically  getting  ready  for  the  same 
history  as  that  of  Minnesota  and  the  Dakotas. 

We  passed  along  the  flyway  of  most  of  our  marsh 
ducks  and  many  of  our  deep  water  ducks,  as  we  see 
them  in  the  United  States.  In  wide  parts  of  the 
Mackenzie  River  we  saw  a  great  many  scoters,  more 
of  that  species  than  any  other  bird  noted.  We  did 
not  see  very  many  wild  geese.  The  natives  say 
they  breed  far  to  the  east  and  the  traders  say  that 
Hudson  Bay  is  where  the  Canada  geese  breed. 
The  Canada  geese,  for  instance,  do  not  come  to 
Lake  Athabasca,  where  the  shooting  is  all  on  the 
white  geese. 

There  is  wild  celery  in  one  little  lake  I  know  of 
close  to  Fort  McPherson,  which  is  in  the  southern 
edge  of  the  Mackenzie  River  delta,  on  the  Peel 
River.  This  plant  may  exist  in  others  of  the  little 
lakes  between  that  point  and  the  Arctic  Red  River. 
I  did  not  hear  it  spoken  of  as  generally  distributed 
across  the  country,  and  do  not  believe  it  is  often 
found  in  the  Far  North. 

It  was  an  odd  thing  to  see  our  redbreasted  robin 
far  above  the  Arctic  Circle.  I  saw  a  robin's  nest 
at  Fort  MacMurray,  two  hundred  and  fifty-seven 

199 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

miles  north  of  Edmonton,  and  numbers  of  robins 
round  Fort  McPherson,  under  the  midnight  sun. 
I  saw  one  jacksnipe  on  the  summit  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  at  a  pass  which  is  only  about  a  hundred 
miles  south  of  the  Arctic  Ocean.  I  saw  one  speci- 
men of  the  sharp-tailed  grouse,  killed  in  the  willows 
close  to  Fort  McPherson,  its  markings  almost  the 
same  as  those  of  the  sharp-tail  of  Saskatchewan  or 
the  Dakotas. 

When  I  state  that  we  traveled  forty-rive  hundred 
miles  on  three  great  waterways  of  the  upper  north 
and  never  saw  a  bear,  moose,  deer,  or  caribou,  or 
anything  else  larger  than  a  fox,  and  that  we  saw 
relatively  few  broods  of  ducks,  I  think  that  though 
we  should  not  reason  from  one  particular  experience 
to  a  general  or  sweeping  conclusion,  it  will  be  ad- 
mitted that  the  north  is  a  land  of  want  and  not  a 
land  of  plenty  as  to  wildfowl  or  any  other  great 
natural  supply  of  food.  The  truth  is,  in  that  coun- 
try the  white  man  or  the  red  man  thinks  more  of 
grub  than  he  does  of  anything  else,  and  always 
from  the  point  of  want.  It  is  always  a  starving 
country. 

Now,  since  both  white  and  red  men  live  there, 
close  to  such  breeding  grounds  as  there  are,  and 
since,  moreover,  they  both  say  the  wildfowl  are 
decreasing  and  not  increasing,  what  is  to  be  our 

200 


WEALTH  ON  WINGS 

logical  conclusion  as  to  the  supply  of  wildfowl  we 
may  expect  from  that  Far-Northern  country? 

Probably  the  more  accurate  conclusion  is  that  a 
great  many  of  the  wildfowl  we  shall  in  the  future 
shoot  in  the  United  States  will  be  bred  rather  in 
the  extreme  southern  than  the  extreme  northern 
parts  of  the  Dominion  of  Canada.  These  breeding 
grounds  will  supply  part  of  the  Atlantic  coast  fowl 
as  well  as  those  of  the  Mississippi  Valley  and  the 
Gulf  coast.  The  Pacific  and  Yukon  breeding 
grounds  will  supply  the  California  coast  in  the  win- 
ter. Some  of  the  Arctic  islands,  as  yet  unknown, 
will  supply  a  species  or  more  of  geese  which  mi- 
grate southwest  across  the  Rockies  to  the  Pacific 
each  fall.  Other  Arctic  islands,  but  partially 
known,  will  supply  lessening  numbers  of  the  white 
geese.  The  Hudson  Bay  region,  decreasing  and 
not  improving  in  productivity,  will  send  us  our 
lessening  number  of  Canada  geese.  A  few  birds 
will  breed  in  scattering  fashion  in  our  own  upper- 
western  states  when  we  stop  hammering  them  in 
the  spring. 

For  twenty-five  years  the  writer  has  been  more 
or  less  a  student — for  fifteen  years  more  or  less  a 
student  in  a  professional  way — of  the  supply  of 
game  in  America,  more  especially  in  Western  Amer- 
ica. The  decrease  of  every  species  in  every  locality 

20 1 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

is,  when  one  stops  to  think  of  it,  an  accurate  and 
studious  cause  for  actual  consternation.  The  speed 
and  the  completeness  of  the  disappearance  of  our 
game  has  been  something  beyond  belief. 

By  no  means  phenomenal  of  themselves,  none 
the  less  the  writer's  observations  have  been  carried 
on  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  in  every  state  of  the 
West,  in  every  state  of  the  Northwest,  Middle  West 
and  the  South;  and  he  has  seen  the  fly  way  of  the 
fowl  from  the  mouth  of  the  Rio  Grande  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Mackenzie.  Without  the  slightest 
wish  to  be  sensational  or  even  striking,  the  definite 
conclusion  of  one  man  who,  for  a  good  part  of  his 
life,  has  been  paid  to  know  about  this  sort  of  thing, 
is  that  we  did  not  get  our  national  law  one  minute 
too  soon,  and  cannot  hang  on  to  it  too  tightly.  Not 
all  the  best  agencies  we  used  before  that,  not  all  the 
combined  attempts  of  all  the  thinking  people  of  this 
country  previous  to  the  year  1913,  availed  to  stop 
the  continual  and  accelerating  disappearance  of  all 
the  game  of  all  the  states  of  the  entire  Union.  And, 
without  knowing  it,  we  were  drawing  heavily  on 
Canada  all  the  time.  You  see  what  Canada  is  today 
and  what  may  be  expected  of  her.  It  is  little,  and 
will  be  less. 

Let  us  hope  that  the  American  people  have 
learned  their  lesson.  And  let  us  hope  that  they 

202 


finally  will  conclude  that  it  is  time  to  do  a  little 
sowing  if  we  are  going  to  reap  this  crop  any  longer. 
The  national  migratory  wildfowl  law  will  not  en- 
force itself,  good  as  it  is— though  it  will  come  a 
great  deal  closer  to  enforcing  itself  than  any  state 
law,  for  the  arm  of  Uncle  Sam  after  all  is  far 
longer  and  stronger  than  that  of  any  governor  in 
the  United  States.  Heretofore  our  ducks  and  geese 
had  no  chance.  Today  all  our  grouse,  our  quails, 
all  our  upland  birds,  have  no  chance ;  but  our  ducks 
and  geese  and  our  other  migratory  birds  do  have  a 
fighting  chance.  In  the  name  of  plain  North  Amer- 
ican horse  sense,  we  ought  to  hail  these  facts  with 
enthusiasm.  We  ought  to  do  what  we  can  to  live  on 
the  dividends  of  this  wealth  which  literally  has 
wings,  and  not  wholly  to  spend  our  capital  in  our 
old  spendthrift  fashion. 

It  is  not  a  question  of  whether  or  not  a  few  duck- 
ing clubs  will  have  better  or  worse  shooting.  It  is 
not  even  a  question  of  whether  the  average  Ameri- 
can with  a  gun  will  kill  more  or  less  birds  in  his 
particular  locality.  The  law  does  not  abolish  shoot- 
ing; it  simply  sets  a  national  harvest-time  for  a 
valuable  crop.  It  is  in  line  with  the  tendency  of  the 
times.  It  is  a  blow  at  special  privilege. 

North  of  latitude  fifty-five  there  are  no  game 
laws  now — nor  ought  there  to  be.  The  people  up 

203 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

there  need  the  game  for  food  and  they  will  not  wipe 
it  out. 

I  once  asked  an  Indian  on  the  Peace  River 
whether  it  was  safe  to  leave  our  camp  unguarded. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  in  surprise.  "There  will 
be  no  white  men  who  will  come  here !" 

It  is  not  the  untutored  savage  who  is  the  ruthless 
and  ignorant  destroyer,  a  selfish  breaker  of  the  law ; 
it  is  the  white  man,  the  proud  heir  of  the  ages.1 

1A  test  case  of  the  Weeks-McLean  Law  has,  since  the  above 
was  written,  been  taken  to  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United 
States.  At  midwinter  of  1916,  the  decision  had  not  yet  been 
handed  down.  The  short-sighted  greed  of  certain  American 
shooters  is  an  astonishing, thing. 


BEAR-HUNTING— THE  SPORT  OF 
PRESIDENTS 


X 

BEAR-HUNTING— THE  SPORT  OF  PRESIDENTS 

INTROSPECTION  is  not  good  for  human  be- 
ings.    It  leads  to  neurasthenia,  wife-beating, 
new  religions,    freak   clothes,    Nature-faking, 
all  sorts  of  things.    Turn  the  eye  outward,  and  there 
are  the  earth  and  the  sky ;  likewise  many  wild  crea- 
tures, such  as  never  were  in  the  Arr  Noovo  of 
modern  handmade  Nature. 

Taking  life  just  as  it  has  come  to  me  from  the 
outside,  I  confess  that  I  personally  have  never  seen 
the  wild  animals  fashionable  in  the  New  Thought; 
and  I  have  never  hesitated  to  go  hunting,  when  I 
got  the  chance,  with  rifle,  and  not  notebook,  in  hand. 
I  have  never  met  a  soulful  wolverene,  have  never 
encountered  a  magazine  lynx,  and  never  run  across 
a  Sunday  newspaper  wolf  in  all  my  simple,  un- 
eventful life.  I  have  seen  pictures  of  wild  ani- 
mals in  the  magazines  which  gave  me  cold  shivers; 
but,  without  pride  or  shame,  I  can  say  that  in  a 
fairly  broad  experience  with  big  game,  I  never 
met  a  wild  animal  which  gave  me  any  shivers  at 

207 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

all.  I  believe  this  is  the  experience  of  most  big- 
game  hunters. 

I  ought,  in  my  own  case,  to  note  two  exceptions. 
Twice  during  my  life  I  have  been  frightened  into 
shivers.  The  first  time  was  when  I  was  young.  It 
was  a  Girl  that  did  it.  She  had  long  chestnut  hair, 
and  very  white  teeth,  and  very  large  eyes,  and  very 
small  front  feet.  My  knees  shook  every  time  I  saw 
that  creature  coming.  I  used  to  walk  around  the 
block  to  dodge  her,  then  come  around  behind  on 
the  other  side,  planning  what  I  would  say  when  I 
met  her  face  to  face.  I  never  did  say  it.  She  is 
married  now,  though  not  to  me. 

The  other  animal  that  scared  me  was  a  rabbit. 
I  had  taken  down  the  family  shotgun  from  the 
armorial  bearings  in  the  old  wainscoted  hall,  and 
was  projecting  around  a  hazel-brush  patch — 
wrapped  in  thought,  I  don't  doubt,  about  the  Girl. 
All  at  once,  as  I  chanced  to  look  up,  I  saw,  sitting 
at  the  edge  of  the  brush,  about  five  feet  from  me, 
crouched  in  the  attitude  of  attack,  with  staring  eyes 
looking  straight  into  mine  precisely  like  those  of  the 
lynx  in  the  magazine,  this  ferocious  creature  with 
its  ears  laid  back  tight  to  its  head  and  every  muscle 
of  its  tense  form  strained  as  though  about  to  spring. 
It  did  spring,  too,  although  it  did  not  land  on  me. 
My  father  said  the  thing  was  scared  until  it  was 

208 


BEAR-HUNTING 

paralyzed.  If  so,  it  had  none  the  best  of  me.  I 
now  know  that  I  lost  an  opportunity  to  work  up  a 
New  Thought  story  in  which  plain  "rabbit"  might 
have  been  spelled  with  a  large  R. 

Bears  always  had  a  fascination  for  me  in  the  ab- 
stract, although  in  the  concrete  they  have  always 
proved  rather  a  disappointment.  The  ordinary  bear 
of  the  Middle,  Eastern,  and  Southern  States  is  the 
biggest  coward  of  all  animals,  unless  it  is  the  fero- 
cious lynx  Arr  Noovo  or  the  savage  Sunday  wolf. 
The  grizzly  of  the  Rockies  is  very  scarce  today, 
and  he  is  not  the  grizzly  of  Lewis  and  Clark,  by 
the  same  -measure  that  the  high-power  rifle  of  today 
is  not  the  arm  of  small-bore,  muzzle-loading  days. 
Taking  them  as  they  came,  black,  brown,  red,  gray, 
pink,  blue,  cerise,  mauve,  and  ecru  bears,  a  dozen 
or  so,  I  presume  I  have  had  my  share,  though 
never  quite  enough. 

It  is  in  the  spring  that  a  hunter's  fancy  turns  to 
thoughts  of  bear,  for  in  the  spring  the  robes  are 
best  and  the  bears  are  most  easily  found.  One 
spring  the  commanding  officer  in  my  household 
measured  off  a  place  about  ten  feet  square  on  the 
floor,  and  delicately  hinted  that  an  Oriental  rug 
would  do  well  there.  It  is  by  industry  and  economy 
that  we  advance  in  the  world.  It  promptly  occurred 
to  me  that  it  would  be  much  more  expedient  to  kill 

209 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

a  grizzly  whose  hide  would  just  fit  the  space.  On 
the  whole  it  might  have  been  cheaper  to  buy  the 
Oriental  rug,  and  much  cheaper  to  have  bought  a 
grizzly.  But  that  is  how  the  Grizzly  Bear  Com- 
pany, Limited,  came  to  be  organized. 

I  reserved  a  controlling  interest  in  the  stock,  but 
parted  with  a  small  block  to  my  first  department 
head,  a  mountain  man  of  British  Columbia,  with 
whom  I  had  hunted  grizzlies  before.  The  rest  of 
the  staff  we  decided  to  select  on  the  ground;  and 
the  ground,  after  much  deliberation,  we  decided 
must  be  the  far-off  corner  of  Northwest  Alaska, 
where  the  largest  bears  in  the  world  are  found, 
because  it  required  a  large  one  to  fill  the  space 
mapped  out  on  the  floor.  We  reasoned  that  suc- 
cess would  be  most  probable  in  a  country  where 
the  trees  are  small  and  the  bears  are  large.  We 
had  both  hunted  many  countries  where  the  trees 
were  large  and  the  bears  small.  To  sit  down  in 
the  ice  water  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain  and  wait 
for  a  problematical  bear  to  appear  at  a  problem- 
atical spot  at  a  problematical  hour  seemed  to  me, 
on  mature  deliberation,  to  involve  a  great  in- 
dustrial waste. 

We  freely  listened  to  advice,  but  wisely  took  none 
of  it.  If  you  begin  to  give  way  to  the  charm  of 
the  railway  folder  or  the  licensed  guide  you  might 

210 


BEAR-HUNTING 

as  well  join  the  innumerable  caravan  of  those  who 
really  get  their  grizzlies  with  a  trap.-  Committed  to 
no  locality,  we  put  our  highly  select  grub-list  on 
board  a  steamer  at  Seattle  and  sailed  the  ocean  blue 
along  the  fifteen  hundred  miles  of  wholly  tin-can 
and  partly  tin-horn  coast  of  a  country  which  most 
folk  think  is  like  Siberia  for  wilderness ;  but  which 
is  really  by  far  more  like  Kansas — with  no  wife's 
folks  to  fall  back  on. 

Few  climates  leave  bear  robes  good  after  the 
middle  of  June.  Our  bear  company  started  in 
April  for  the  bear  country;  but  the  length  of  the 
journey,  which  brought  the  end  of  May  upon  us, 
left  us  very  uneasy.  To  lie  in  wait  at  a  salmon 
stream  in  the  summer  and  pot  a  mangy  bear  with  no 
fur  on  his  skin  was  not  included  in  our  business  sys- 
tem. That  sort  of  rug  would  never  get  past  the 
household  desk. 

In  Alaska  it  rains  all  the  time  during  the  spring, 
and  by  and  by  it  rains  some  more.  It  was  on  an 
especially  moist  morning,  and  at  about  4  A.  MV 
when  our  good  ship  pulled  up  at  the  dock  at  the 
town  of  Kodiak,  on  Kodiak  Island,  the  last  and  most 
abandoned  of  our  national  possessions.  When  we 
bought  the  territory  from  Russia  we  tried  to  give 
her  back  Kodiak  Island,  but  she  wouldn't  listen  to  it 
for  a  minute,  so  we  have  it  now.  To  look  at  Kodiak 

211 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

you  couldn't  tell  whether  it  was  New  England,  Italy, 
or  the  showerbath  at  an  athletic  club. 

Kodiak  Island  being  wholly  outside  the  concern 
of  Divine  Providence,  the  latter  was  jointly  repre- 
sented by  the  United  States  Commissioner,  the 
Deputy  United  States  Marshal  and  the  Alaska  Com- 
mercial Company,  with  some  argument  as  to  prece- 
dence. I  met  the  agent  of  the  Alaska  Commercial 
Company,  who  led  me  up  to  a  high  place  in  his 
storage  loft  and  showed  me  scores  of  bearskins, 
some  of  them  large  as  Oriental  rugs.  He  advised 
me  against  going  farther,  saying  that  here  on  Kod- 
iak Island  we  could  get  patient  bears  with  short 
noses,  long  claws  and  sociable  dispositions;  where- 
as, if  we  remained  on  the  steamer,  it  might  be 
Christmas  before  we  got  into  the  bear  country  that 
we  proposed  to  reach. 

I  had  four  minutes  in  which  to  decide,  and  as 
president  of  the  company  decided  in  three.  The 
other  minute  I  spent  in  getting  my  companion,  our 
guns  and  blankets  off  the  boat.  As  to  our  highly 
select  grub  outfit  from  Seattle,  it  went  on  to  Si- 
beria. 

"Do  you  think,"  asked  the  captain  of  the  boat, 
with  his  hand  on  the  bell-rope,  "that  I  can  dig  your 
camp  stuff  from  under  forty-eight  tons  of  freight 
in  three-quarters  of  a  minute?" 

212 


BEAR-HUNTING 

Ah,  well,  the  coffee  of  Kodiak  was,  perhaps,  not 
quite  so  good;  mayhap  the  tea  had  smaller  flavor 
of  the  Orient;  but  the  bacon,  the  bean,  the  prune, 
and  eke  the  salt  of  commerce  are  much  the  same 
the  world  over,  after  all.  Any  business  system  must 
be  flexible  enough  to  meet  sudden  emergencies  like 
this. 

We  now  added  to  our  staff  two  new  members, 
saffron  brown  in  exterior  color,  Aleuts  by  tribe, 
though  of  what  exact  extraction  none  might  say. 
First  was  Kuroki — so  called  because  I  could  not 
pronounce  his  other  name  and  because  he  looked 
like  that  Japanese  commander.  He  had  been  a  cook, 
a  steamboat  waiter,  prospector,  miner,  stevedore, 
and  other  things.  Also  he  was  a  mighty  hunter 
before  the  Lord,  if  you  left  it  to  him.  The  other 
man,  Czaroff,  was  a  Rembrandt  study ;  an  old  samu- 
rai of  the  sea,  a  sea-otter  hunter  and  hence  an 
aristocrat.  He,  being  an  aristocrat,  always  let 
Kuroki  do  the  work.  Kuroki  also  let  anyone  do 
the  work  who  felt  like  it. 

The  question  of  transportation  is  important  in 
any  business  enterprise.  Of  a  United  States  Deputy 
Marshal  we  chartered  a  brand-new  schooner,  the 
most  sausage-like  craft  that  ever  was  on  land  or  sea. 

Her  name  was  Linea  L ,  but  we  called  her 

Literal  L >  for  short.  At  last,  with  the  dory 

213 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

towing  us  ahead  and  both  wind  and  tide  fortunately 
astern,  we  managed  to  get  her  down  the  coast  and 
landed  on  the  shingled  shores  of  a  mountain-girt 
arm  of  the  sea  known  as  Kaludiak  Bay.'  There 
the  schooner  left  us,  the  wind  and  tide  both  having 
changed  and  started  the  other  way,  by  good  for- 
tune, else  she  would  be  there  yet. 

At  last  we  were  alone !  It  was  the  first  week  in 
June.  In  two  weeks  the  hides  would  begin  to  go 
bad.  Rather  short  shrift  for  us,  after  nearly  two 
months  of  preparation  and  travel.  It  was  wet,  and 
our  tent,  designed  for  man-back  transportation  and 
not  for  schooner  travel,  was  small.  We  hunted  up 
a  deserted  native  hut,  or  barrabara  as  it  is  called, 
a  low-walled,  earthen-roofed  affair,  where  the  fire 
is  built  on  the  ground  in  the  center  and  the  smoke 
never  does  get  out.  We  put  fresh  grass  on  the  floor, 
fumigated  it,  and  installed  our  stock  of  goods  there 
as  headquarters.  Then  I  took  a  walk  along  the 
coast.  The  first  thing  I  saw  was  a  path,  one  made 
by  human  feet! 

"Kuroki,"  said  I,  "why  and  whence  this  path?" 

"Ah,"  said  Kuroki,  "my  peoples  make  it.  Plenty 
time  they  come  here  to  hunt  and  fish." 

"And  do  you  suppose  for  a  minute  bears  are  going 
to  come  here,  too?"  I  asked  him  coldly. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Kuroki,  standing  on  one  foot. 
214 


BEAR-HUNTING 

"The  captain  of  schooner,  those  Marshal,  want  to 
come  here." 

"Stung  again !"  said  I.  "The  Grizzly  Bear  Com- 
pany, Limited,  has  been  classified  as  a  tourist  only !" 

A  school  of  whales  was  spouting  not  three  hun- 
dred fathoms  distant  from  our  camp.  A  score  of 
eagles  sailed  about,  waiting  for  the  salmon  to  run  in 
our  little  creek  near  by.  The  mountains,  rude  and 
snow-clad,  stood  all  about.  It  was  a  savage,  seemly, 
fascinating  corner  of  the  world.  Our  schooner  was 
gone  and  we  could  not  get  away  for  two  weeks  at 
least.  So  the  entire  office  force  went  into  executive 
session  in  the  barrabara  to  discuss  ways  and  means 
of  making  the  best  of  it. 

The  next  morning  the  boss  and  the  first  depart- 
ment head  took  the  dory  and  sailed  ten  miles  to  the 
head  of  another  bay  where  the  traces  of  humanity 
were  not  quite  so  obvious.  We  left  Czaroff  and 
took  Kuroki.  "My  peoples,"  said  Kuroki,  "all  time 
stay  in  boat.  Go  along  beach  in  boat,  watch  moun- 
tains, s'pose  see  bear,  then  plenty  time  get  out  and 
go  shoot  urn." 

We  explained  to  Kuroki  that  under  the  new  work- 
ing office  rules,  that  sort  of  hunting  was  merely  a 
reminiscence.  I  could  readily  see  that  as  there  was 
nothing  in  the  way  of  food  to  bring  the  bears  down 
out  of  the  hills,  they  no  doubt  were  still  up  in  the 

215 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

hills.  Discarding  old  and  time-tried  Kodiak  meth- 
ods, I  used  the  Chicago  system,  which  says  that  the 
best  way  is  to  go  out  after  business  and  not  wait 
for  it  to  come  to  you.  Kuroki  grew  pale  at  the 
thought  of  climbing  these  mountains,  but  there  was 
no  hope  for  him.  He  joined  us  on  our  first  stroll, 
twenty  miles  or  so  toward  the  summit  of  a  pass  far 
back  in  the  interior.  By  night  he  was  sagging  badly 
but  still  smiling.  He  knew  he  was  in  the  hands  of 
his  loving  friends.  Also,  he  was  scared  to  be  alone. 
No  bears,  no  sign  of  bears,  rewarded  us  at  the 
close  of  our  first  day's  hunt;  but  we  saw  hundreds 
of  salmon  skeletons,  marks  of  last  fall's  fishing;  and 
we  saw  such  bear  trails  as  I  never  knew  existed  in 
the  world — trails  worn  deep  into  the  soil  during 
hundreds  of  years  of  use,  perhaps,  with  prints  in 
them  made  apparently  by  doormats  rather  than 
actual  bare  bear  feet.  Most  of  these  older  trails 
were  double,  the  bears  being  so  wide  in  the  chest 
that  they  could  not  put  their  feet  down  in  a  single 
trail.  The  reach  from  foot  to  foot  was  sometimes 
longer  than  a  man  could  step.  I  measured  one  track 
in  the  snow  which  was  as  long  as  my  rifle  barrel 
from  front  to  back  sight.  From  this  island  many 
skins  have  come  over  ten  feet  in  length,  a  few  over 
thirteen  feet.  One  hide  is  said  to  have  measured 
sixteen  feet  and  a  half  square  when  stretched.  Of 

216 


BEAR-HUNTING 

course,  the  traders  stretch  all  these  hides  as  hard  as 
they  can;  but  it  may  be  seen  that  the  bears  are  al- 
most unbelievably  large.  The  Rockies  hold  nothing 
approaching  them.  We  sighed  and  lifted  up  our 
eyes  to  the  hills.  "If  we  could  only  run  across  one 
of  these  old  boys!"  said  my  ardent  lieutenant. 

In  the  Rockies  we  sometimes  get  a  grizzly  to  show 
by  baiting  him  with  some  large  animal;  but  on 
Kodiak  Island  there  are  no  large  animals  but  the 
bears  themselves.  They  get  their  immense  stature 
from  abundant  feed  of  salmon,  on  which  they  live 
for  most  of  the  year  when  not  asleep.  At  present, 
they  were  no  doubt  digging  roots  and  eating  grass 
until  the  berries  and  fish  should  come.  I  asked 
Kuroki  what  we  could  use  for  bait. 

"I  dunno,"  said  he.  "My  peoples  no  use  bait. 
Bear  smell  um  bait,  him  run  twenty  mile.  Smell 
um  mans,  run  forty  mile." 

"How  far  back  in  the  hills  do  you  think  they  are, 
Kuroki?" 

"I  dunno.  My  peoples  stay  on  beach.  Only 
know,  s'pose  bear  smell  mans,  him  run  forty  mile." 

"Then  your  big  bear  seems  a  good  deal  of  a  cow- 
ard, eh?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  Kuroki.  "Plenty  my  peoples  get 
killed  by  bears,  all  right,  all  right." 

As  it  appeared  that  we  had  come  far  and  learned 
217 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

little,  we  resolved  to  fall  back  on  good  business 
usage  and  employ  our  own  judgment.  From  the 
first  day  I  resolved  to  forget  all  the  advice  I  had 
received  as  to  the  personal  peculiarities  of  Kodiak 
bear,  and  treat  them  just  as  though  they  were  Rocky 
Mountain  bear  and  follow  them  far  and  frequent. 

Our  company  was  now  disposed  as  follows: 
Czaroff  was  at  the  main  camp,  supposedly  scouring 
his  valley  for  sign,  but  really  trying  to  eat  eight 
squares  a  day.  We  three  of  the  field  force  divided, 
the  lieutenant  taking  one  valley  and  Kuroki  and  I 
another.  In  turn,  we  two  separated  to  cover  as 
much  country  as  possible.  If  possible  the  boss  was 
to  have  the  first  shot  at  any  bear  discovered,  but  if 
that  was  not  possible,  the  bear  was  to  be  killed  by 
the  discoverer,  and  ten  dollars  was  to  go  as  bonus 
in  addition  to  daily  wages  in  case  a  bear  was  found. 
Personal  sport  was  pretty  much  lost  sight  of  in  the 
stress  for  time  and  the  stern  need  of  success. 

We  had  come  far,  and  we  had  been  stung.  We 
were  now  a  joint-stock  company,  with  preferred 
and  common  stock,  it  is  true,  but  with  the  latter 
well  represented  on  the  directorate. 

Now  witness  the  reward  of  good  business  meth- 
ods. I  had  not  hunted  three  hours  the  second  day 
before  I  came  to  the  edge  of  a  deep  canon,  along 
the  rim  of  which  were  plainly  to  be  seen  the  dig- 

218 


BEAR-HUNTING 

gings  of  three  bears — not  one,  but  three,  and  all  of 
them  very  decent  ones  at  that.  Evidently  they  had 
been  feeding  along  this  canon  for  more  than  a 
week.  Preferred  stock  rose  rapidly  about  fifty 
points,  then  and  there. 

But  the  sign  was  so  mixed  and  so  abundant  that 
it  was  hard  to  trace.  The  bears  had  slept  here  and 
eaten  here,  but  which  way  had  they  gone  ? 

Preferred  stock  took  a  decided  slump  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon;  for,  do  the  best  I  could,  I  was 
unable  to  puzzle  out  the  course  of  the  great  brutes 
which  had  left  their  record  here.  Common  stock, 
also,  as  represented  by  Kuroki,  was  closing  weak, 
Kuroki  having,  as  I  could  tell  through  my  field 
glasses,  found  a  warm  spot  against  a  rock  where 
he  could  sit  tight  and  hunt  after  the  fashion  of 
"his  peoples."  Hunting  after  the  fashion  of  my 
own  peoples,  I  pushed  steadily  on  to  the  top  of  my 
mountain,  but  did  not  cut  the  trail. 

Then  I  crossed  over  a  high  shoulder,  high  up  in 
the  clouds  of  mist,  leaving  far  below  me  a  grand 
panorama  of  the  sea  in  bands  of  dulling  colors — > 
such  a  picture  as  you  must  go  hunting  in  these  white 
high  hills  ever  to  witness.  At  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  on  the  breast  of  a  great  snow-field,  I 
flung  myself  down  to  rest  before  starting  down  for 
the  rendezvous  at  the  boat.  I  had  not  found  my 

219 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

bear.  Market  was  closing  weak  for  the  industrials. 
At  last,  as  I  took  in  the  wide  expanse  of  broken 
country  that  lay  for  five  miles  ahead  of  me,  I  saw 
something  which  forced  me  to  look  again. 

To  the  novice  big  game  never  looks  as  he  expects 
it  to  look,  and  perhaps  a  novice  might  not  have 
looked  a  second  time.  There  was  a  dark  blotch  or 
blur  down  there  on  the  gray-brown  surface  beyond 
the  far  side  of  a  great  canon.  It  did  not  look  quite 
like  a  rock,  nor  quite  like  a  tree — it  seemed  some- 
how suspicious.  Fearing  to  take  my  eyes  from  it 
while  I  reached  for  the  field  glasses,  which  are  a 
part  of  any  bear  hunter's  equipment,  I  gazed  stead- 
ily, asking  to  be  convinced  that  it  was  not  a  rock  and 
not  a  tree  or  bush  or  blotch  of  moss  upon  the  moun- 
tainside. At  last  suspicion  became  conviction.  The 
drab  blur  showed  motion,  which  always  means 
game.  It  split  into  two,  into  three  parts,  all  now  in 
motion!  I  heard  someone  say,  in  a  voice  which  I 
presume  was  my  own,  but  which  sounded  small  up 
there  on  the  great  wind-swept  mountain  top,  "Bear, 
by  Heaven !"  There  is  no  other  big  game  on  Kodiak 
Island  except  bear.  I  knew  to  a  certainty  now  that 
these  were  my  three  bears  which  had  no  doubt 
scented  us  that  morning  ten  miles  back  in  the  valley 
and  had  promptly  proceeded  to  leave  the  country. 
It  was  great  good  fortune  to  get  sight  of  them 

220 


BEAR-HUNTING 

again.  So  much  for  perseverance  and  good  solicit- 
ing! Now  how  to  handle  the  business  offered?  It 
was  a  large  order. 

The  glasses  made  out  the  game  now  plainly. 
There  were  three  of  them,  great,  shambling  crea- 
tures, full  of  the  look  of  rude,  coarse  strength. 
Their  coats  were  dark,  as  I  could  see  even  at  four 
miles'  distance.  That  meant  that  all  the  spring  they 
had  been  high  up  in  the  mountains  and  had  not  sun- 
burned or  rubbed  their  hides.  Good  specimens  they 
surely  were,  in  full  coat;  very  typical  of  their 
species,  not  with  yellow,  mangy  hides  rubbed  full 
of  bare  patches. 

Apparently  the  bears  were  still  uneasy  over  some- 
thing. Once  in  a  while  all  three  took  a  long  run, 
up  toward  the  snow-field  on  the  farther  peak. 
Sometimes  two  of  them  would  stop  and  fight,  box- 
ing savagely.  The  third  nearly  always  kept  behind, 
and  more  often  lay  down,  as  though  he  had  fed 
fully  and  did  not  care  to  travel.  The  appearance  of 
rude,  shaggy  strength  which  the  great  bears  pre- 
sented was  impressive,  indeed  fascinating.  They 
were  bears — real  ones,  wild  ones,  big  ones  with  no 
tin  cans  to  occupy  them  and  no  iron  bars  to  restrain 
them.  It  was  a  good,  large  order.  My  glasses 
brought  them  into  full  view  though  they  were  four 
miles  or  more  away.  I  recall  few  more  interesting 

221 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

moments  than  those  spent  here  in  the  snow,  watch- 
ing these  great  creatures  at  actual  first  hand. 

The  wind  was  straight  from  me  to  them  and  it 
was  useless  to  try  to  stalk,  even  did  they  settle  down 
and  cease  working  on  out  of  the  country.  I  doubted 
whether  I  could  get  around  them,  but  was  just  about 
to  start  down  for  the  attempt  when  I  heard  shuffling 
in  the  snow  behind  me  and  saw  Kuroki,  somewhat 
out  of  breath.  He  had  been  trailing  me  across  the 
mountain,  thinking  I  might  be  lost,  or  that  he  might 
be,  I  do  not  know  which.  We  both  decided  that, 
slight  as  the  chance  was,  it  was  better  now  than  it 
might  be  the  next  day,  by  which  time  the  game 
might  be  altogether  gone. 

"The  Grizzly  Bear  Company,  Limited,  expects 
every  man  to  do  his  duty,  Kuroki,"  said  I,  as  I  took 
up  a  hole  in  my  belt.  Then  we  took  a  flying  run 
across  the  snow-face  which  carried  us  over  a  mile 
angling  down.  So  we  reached  the  broken  ground 
along  many  canons,  and  labored  hard  in  alder  tan- 
gles and  devil's-club.  We  must  hasten  and  yet  we 
must  wait;  for  until  the  wind  should  shift  with  the 
night  cool,  and  come  down  the  canons  instead  of  up 
from  the  sea,  we  could  not  hope  to  stalk  our  game 
successfully. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  ten  dollars,  perhaps  the  hope 
of  glory,  which  kept  Kuroki  going.  I  admit  he  let 

222 


BEAR-HUNTING 

out  an  unsuspected  notch  or  so.  At  last  we  were 
over  the  last  canon  but  one,  and  far  below  the  spot 
where  we  had  last  seen  the  bears.  Still,  at  each 
ridge  we  used  caution,  which  was  well;  for  finally, 
at  about  half-past  ten  o'clock,  as  we  reached  the  rim 
of  a  desperate  rock-rent  where  the  white  water  far 
below  had  left  us  wet  to  the  waist,  we  peered  over 
and  saw  that  our  bears  had  changed  their  course, 
and  were  coming  almost  directly  down  to  meet  us. 
Three-quarters  of  a  mile  would  put  us  within  shot ! 
Alas,  much  of  that — all  the  last  half  of  it — must 
be  directly  across  an  open  snow-field,  where  we  must 
be  in  plain  sight  of  the  game! 

The  grizzly  bear  is  a  very  cautious  animal  in 
some  ways  and  a  very  careless  one  in  others.  He 
may  stand  and  watch  you  indifferently,  if  he  does 
not  smell  you;  and  then,  if  he  gets  scent,  he  may 
wheel  and  run.  We  waited  now,  desperately 
anxious,  until  the  wind  came  a  trifle  on  the  left 
cheek.  We  risked  the  chance  of  the  bears  seeing 
us,  knowing  that  a  grizzly  has  very  bad  eyes  and 
does  not  rely  much  upon  them.  We  hoped  only  that 
we  could  pass  the  snow-slope  and  get  to  the  edge  of 
the  brush  strip  beyond,  where  perhaps  we  would  be 
within  range. 

We  did  reach  this  cover,  wet  now  to  the  skin  all 
over  with  snow  and  ice  water.  Preferred  and  com- 

223 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

•mon  stock  about  at  par  now,  and  the  market  strong ! 

Alas!  Again  there  yawned  before  us  another 
canon,  deep  and  narrow.  We  were  on  one  edge; 
directly  on  the  other  were  the  three  bears,  walking, 
pausing,  grumbling,  digging,  feeding,  but  still  un- 
easy. It  was  over  three  hundred  yards ;  and  now  it 
was  half -past  eleven  in  the  night,  the  pale  Alaska 
light  being  just  strong  enough  to  permit  the  chance. 
The  Grizzly  Bear  Company,  Limited,  worked  the 
open  shop,  and  recognized  neither  labor  unions  nor 
the  eight-hour  day.  In  Alaska  the  summer  night 
is  almost  no  night  at  all. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  shoot.  If  we 
tried  to  cross  the  canon  we  would  be  seen,  smelled 
and  heard,  and  the  bears  would  be  gone  long  before 
we  could  get  across.  I  do  not  believe  in  long-range 
shooting  if  it  can  be  helped,  but  now  it  could  not 
be  helped.  I  picked  out  a  nice  place  in  a  pool  of 
ice  water  at  the  edge  of  the  canon,  and  whispered, 
"You  may  fire  when  you  are  ready,  Kuroki;  but 
if  you  shoot  before  I  do,  I'll  blow  your  head 
off!" 

Of  the  bears — which  now  looked  excellently  large 
and  interesting — one  was  lying  down,  a  second  was 
still  facing  us  squarely,  and  apparently  deliberately 
watching  us.  The  third,  a  brisk,  dark  one,  big  and 
burly,  was  walking  through  the  brush  toward  the 

224 


BEAR-HUNTING 

open.  This  was  the  one  I  wanted,  so  I  kept  a  hand 
on  Kuroki  until  this  last  fellow  emerged  and  also 
sat  up  to  see  what  we  were. 

Ah,  let  the  anaemic  frame  rules  for  themselves! 
They  shall  not  for  me,  nor  for  any  who  have  felt  the 
still,  steady,  fierce  comfort  of  some  moment  just 
such  as  this.  Carefully  and  steadily  I  fired,  and 
after  that  the  action  became  general. 

Instinct  tells  a  trained  rifleman  whether  or  not 
his  shot  will  serve.  I  knew  I  would  strike  the  big 
bear,  and  at  the  crack  of  the  rifle  was  not  surprised 
to  see  it  drop  back,  apparently  done  for.  I  was 
surprised,  however,  at  the  tremendous  roar,  growl, 
or  howl  that  it  uttered — the  loudest  I  ever  heard  a 
bear  give;  a  hoarse,  croaking  note,  with  something 
like  the  sound  of  feeding  circus  animals  in  it.  But 
it  straightened,  floundered,  roared  as  I  struck  it 
three  times  more,  rapidly.  I  heard  Kuroki  hammer- 
ing away  also,  but  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing. 
My  bear  fell  in  the  brush,  apparently  dead;  and  I 
swung  the  rifle  across  to  where  I  saw  the  second 
bear  still  sitting  and  staring  stupidly  straight  at  us. 
There  was  something  uncanny  about  this,  and  I 
do  not  pretend  to  explain  it.  There  is  always  some- 
thing hard  to  explain  about  every  such  episode 
where  all  happens  in  a  flash  or  so.  But  certainly  I 
saw  Kuroki  fire  directly  at  this  bear  and  not  kill  it ; 

225 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

and  certainly  I  fired  square  at  its  chest.  Then, 
apparently  many  seconds  later,  it  sat  and  stared,  and 
at  last  let  go  all  over,  all  at  once,  and  rolled,  stone- 
dead,  fifty  feet  down  the  mountainside  toward  the 
canon  edge.  Kuroki  exulted  that  he  had  killed  his 
bear,  and  I  thought  he  had  perhaps  done  so,  though 
later  I  found  his  bullet  in  a  hindleg,  my  own  through 
the  chest. 

The  result  of  these  two  shots  I  do  not  pretend  to 
explain;  but  there  were  our  two  bears  down.  The 
third  had  vanished.  Kuroki  said  he  had  shot  once 
at  it  and  missed  it.  I  never  saw  this  bear  at  all, 
my  own  game  having  kept  me  busy  longer  than  I 
had  expected. 

But  now  common  stock  and  preferred  seemed 
pretty  much  the  same  in  value.  I  looked  for  my 
first  bear,  and  it  was  getting  up  again  and  moving 
off  through  the  alders !  Again  the  rifles  began,  but 
we  could  do  nothing  through  the  dense  cover.  The 
Grizzly  Bear  Company,  Limited,  was  facing  disas- 
ter! 

"Run  on  across,  Kuroki!"  I  called,  when  at  last 
a  shot  seemed  to  stop  the  old  fellow  for  a  time.  He 
lay  down  and,  I  thought,  was  dying.  "Kill  that 
cripple  if  he's  still  alive,  and  meet  me  at  the  other 
dead  bear.  I'll  kill  it  if  it  gets  up." 

I  was  well-nigh  worn  out  with  the  hard  work  to 
226 


BEAR-HUNTING 

date,  and  willing  to  leave  easy  details  to  subordi- 
nates. Kuroki  went  on  over,  and  as  soon  as  I  had 
picked  up  our  hats  and  belts  I  followed  him.  The 
snow  was  red,  the  trail  plain,  but  someway  Kuroki 
managed  not  to  find  that  cripple.  Perhaps  the  crip- 
ple seemed  too  vigorous  to  suit  him.  He  said  it 
went  down  in  a  farther  canon  and  that  we  could  not 
get  it  until  the  next  day.  It  was  now  midnight,  and 
the  light  was  very  dim. 

Wet,  cold,  hungry,  we  skinned  out  our  only  bear, 
and  packed  down  the  awful  mountainside  in  the 
sheer  dark,  fording  the  river  far  below,  where  it 
roared  not  quite  so  wildly  over  the  rocks.  So,  at 
half-past  two  in  the  morning,  we  reached  the  beach 
where  our  lieutenant  should  have  been.  He,  think- 
ing that  the  Grizzly  Bear  Company,  Limited,  was 
permanently  disbanded,  had  taken  the  dory  and 
gone  to  camp.  We  built  a  fire  and  in  an  hour  saw 
the  dory  tossing  in  the  wild  sea  as  he  crossed  the 
dangerous  arm  of  the  ocean  once  again.  Then 
some  sort  of  breakfast,  many  congratulations,  and 
a  few  plans. 

Organization  again  proved  its  worth.  Kuroki  and 
I  were  pretty  well  done  out,  but  a  fresh  man  re- 
mained. He  was  delegated  to  finish  the  work  we 
had  begun.  The  question  was,  how  could  he  find 
our  crippled  bear  which  by  this  time,  we  thought, 

227 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

surely  must  be  dead.  Business  again  resumed  sway 
in  our  councils.  I  preferred  to  take  it  easy  on  the 
beach  for  a  few  hours.  Kuroki,  in  view  of  ten 
dollars  more  in  hand  paid,  reluctantly  consented  to 
guide  the  new  troops  up  the  mountain.  He  lasted 
until  the  scene  of  the  battle  was  reached.  Then  he 
grew  very  much  fatigued,  and  fain  would  pause. 
No  Aleut  likes  crippled  grizzlies. 

Ten  hours  later  I  heard  a  shout  and  saw  the  rest 
of  the  staff  appear  on  the  edge  of  the  shore  far 
down  the  bay.  They  threw  down  from  their  shoul- 
ders not  one,  but  two  more  hides !  Common  stock 
was  marked  up  on  a  sharp  bulge. 

It  turned  out  that  they  had  found  the  third  bear 
which  had  escaped  unhurt,  and  Barnes  killed  it  close 
up  as  it  lay  near  the  cripple.  The  latter  he  fired  at 
in  a  thicket  several  times,  and  finally  finished  with 
almost  his  last  shot,  close  at  hand,  it  acting  rather 
ugly.  This  hide  had  eight  bullets  through  it  and 
was  fairly  a  partnership  affair,  as  well  as  the  one 
Kuroki  and  I  had  accounted  for  together.  Had  I 
reserved  all  the  shooting  for  the  preferred  stock 
we  might  not  have  had  nearly  a  doryful  of  prime 
hides,  as  we  now  had. 

It  was  now  night  of  the  second  day  since  we  had 
started  on  this  hunt,  having  been  on  our  feet  for 
thirty-six  hours  with  only  one  real  meal  during  that 

228 


BEAR-HUNTING 

time.  The  labor  situation  looked  ominous  but  peace 
counsel  ruled.  We  were  tired  but  happy  when  we 
took  boat  for  camp,  where  we  pulled  off  a  very 
successful  trade  banquet  in  honor  of  our  good  for- 
tune. 

The  next  day  found  us  at  our  main  camp  where 
we  discovered  Czaroff  entirely  content  with  life. 
When  we  came  upon  him  he  had  his  mouth  full  of 
bacon  and  both  hands  in  a  kettle  of  stew.  He  had 
gained  about  eight  pounds  in  weight.  Kuroki  now 
pleading  disablement,  we  took  on  the  fresher  man 
again,  Czaroff  making  the  next  hunt,  ten  miles  away 
by  dory  to  a  new  valley,  in  Kuroki's  place.  Again 
we  parted  forces ;  again  we  combed  out  twenty  miles 
of  country  with  each  party;  again  we  made  the  in- 
terior passes  at  the  heads  of  our  valleys;  but  this 
time  we  found  no  bears  nor  any  fresh  sign.  We  had 
now  seen  as  much  of  the  interior  of  Kodiak  Island 
as  any  white  or  other  hunter  ever  did,  perhaps, 
and  in  three  days'  actual  hunting  had  hung  up  three 
hides.  Others  might  have  done  as  much.  Our" 
motto  of  business  supremacy  did  not  allow  us  to 
loaf,  as  yet.  Out  must  go  the  full  field  force  once 
more.  We  made  a  night  voyage  across  an  arm  of 
the  sea  that  came  very  near  being  the  last  voyage 
for  all  of  us,  but  providentially  made  camp  to  find 
Kuroki  this  time  with  his  mouth  full  and  both  hands 

229 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

in  the  pot.  We  all  fed  deep  and  slept  hard  that 
wild  night  by  the  sea. 

Again  three  of  us  took  the  field,  and  on  the  next 
day  proceeded  to  repeat  our  regular  system  of  cov- 
ering as  much  ground  as  possible.  Czaroff  and  I 
hunted  for  a  time  together,  and  once  more,  as  for- 
tune would  have  it,  the  boss  was  the  lucky  man  at 
first  getting  sign  of  game.  We  had  not  been  out 
three  hours  before  I  found  fresh  diggings  in  the 
alder  thickets.  Bears  again!  Yes,  and  by  all  for- 
tunes of  war,  three  of  them  again!  Evidently  one 
large  bear  and  two  smaller  ones  had  been  living 
here  for  a  week  or  more. 

But  again  the  wind  was  bad.  "Natu  karosha!" 
muttered  Czaroff.  "Go  home  now!  No  good!" 
His  courage  was  easily  daunted  unless  all  things 
were  favorable. 

The  rules  of  the  house,  however,  were  inflexible. 
The  company  had  to  be  whipped  fair  before  it  an- 
nounced defeat.  I  showed  him  that  by  climbing 
high  up  the  mountain  we  might  get  ahead  of  the 
game  without  its  scenting  us.  Grudgingly  he  went 
with  me  a  mile  or  so  up  the  steeps,  but  with  no 
enthusiasm,  for  he  did  not  think  the  Grizzly  Bear 
Company,  Limited,  could  by  any  possibility  repeat 
such  luck  as  it  had  had. 

Once  more  the  white  man's  eye  was  better  than 
230 


BEAR-HUNTING 

that  of  the  native,  as  indeed  it  nearly  always  is,  as 
well  as  the  white  man's  rifle-shooting.  Czaroff 
crossed  an  open  glade  without  making  any  sign  of 
game;  but,  as  luck  had  it,  once  more  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  something  a  mile  or  so  away  which  did 
not  look  quite  like  a  rock  or  a  tree.  I  swung  the 
glasses  on  it,  and  the  next  instant  was  frantically 
beckoning  to  Czaroff  to  get  down  out  of  sight. 
There,  on  a  mountainside  across  the  valley  from  us, 
standing  now  on  her  haunches  and  swinging  her 
great  head  from  side  to  side  as  she  scanned  the 
country  back  of  her,  was  a  great  bear,  a  fine  one, 
gray  on  the  shoulders  and  back  and  dark  on  the 
flanks,  a  grand  specimen  of  the  Kodiak  grizzly, 
worth  coming  all  this  way  to  see. 

Presently  the  old  lady  swung  down  on  all-fours 
and  moved  into  the  near-by  thicket.  Then  I  saw 
that  she  had  with  her  two  young  cubs,  of  apparently 
eighteen  months  of  age.  A  Kodiak  bear  cub  of  that 
age  is  about  as  big  as  a  twelve-cylinder  automobile. 

"Mamma,  two  little  boy,"  said  Czaroff  in  sudden 
access  of  English.  I  nodded  and  asked  him  what 
he  thought  of  the  wind.  "Natu  karosha!"  he  said 
again.  "No  good!  Mebbe  no  shoot  um.  I  dinno." 

At  least  we  would  try.  We  now  hurried  into  the 
business  of  making  the  stalk,  and  soon  reached  a 
point  where  we  could  reconnoiter.  Alas!  Once 

231 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

more  we  were  sidetracked  by  a  deep-gashed  canon 
which  rent  the  rough  country  for  a  mile.  Beyond 
it  was  open  ground  with  no  cover,  where  the  wind 
would  go  straight  to  our  game ;  so  we  dared  not  try 
the  approach  there.  We  swung  down  the  canon, 
hoping  to  get  below  the  game,  which  might  take  a 
notion  to  leave  at  any  moment;  but  the  further  we 
hurried  the  worse  matters  became,  for  the  canon 
widened  and  deepened. 

At  last  we  pulled  up  on  the  high  edge  opposite 
the  bears,  once  more,  twice  as  far  as  one  shoots  at 
big  game,  and  once  more  confronted  with  the  alter- 
native of  taking  a  long  shot  or  none  at  all.  If  we 
went  lower  down  the  steeps  we  should  lose  sight 
of  our  game  at  the  first  jump.  Here,  although  it 
was  hardly  a  sporting  shot,  we  were  high  enough 
to  command  a  view  for  some  distance.  Moreover, 
though  I  could  not  at  that  range  pick  a  vital  spot 
with  certainty,  I  was  confident  I  could  disable  the 
bear  and  perhaps  kill  it  outright.  In  hunting  stories 
you  read  about  shooting  a  bear  in  the  eye,  or  the 
heart,  or  other  assorted  spots.  It  is  a  mighty  good 
rule  to  shoot  it  just  where  you  can.  Waiting  for 
better  breath,  I  presently  fired ;  and  down  she  went 
indeed,  almost  into  the  canon,  the  shot  having  come 
surprisingly  close  to  the  backbone,  as  we  later 
learned.  But  like  a  flash  she  was  up  again  and  into 

232 


BEAR-HUNTING 

the  thicket,  going  up  the  far  mountainside  at  aston- 
ishing speed.  We  both  fired  again  and  again,  but 
in  the  brush  we  could  not  land,  and  in  the  open  the 
wet  moss  left  no  sign  of  our  shots,  so  we  were  not 
confident  of  the  range. 

"Me  hit  um  little  boy!"  crowed  Czaroff,  and  I 
saw  one  of  the  cubs  stumble.  I  swung  on  it  and 
again  it  rolled.  I  fired  at  the  third  bear  and  it,  too, 
rolled  over.  But  then,  in  spite  of  all,  we  suffered 
the  unspeakable  chagrin  of  seeing  our  game  appar- 
ently bound  to  escape,  after  all.  I  wished  then  I 
had  not  fired  but  had  let  it  go  unhurt.  The  rule  for 
big  game  is  to  get  close  up,  and  now,  in  both  our 
bear  scrimmages,  we  had  lost  the  keenness  of  close 
work  through  this  chance  configuration  of  the 
country. 

The  bears  lumbered  off  in  spite  of  us- — fine  ones, 
too,  as  we  could  see.  "Good-by!"  laughed  Czaroff, 
and  then  added  feelingly,  almost  all  the  English  he 
knew,  "San  Francisco!  California!"  At  least,  he 
did  his  best  at  swearing. 

The  Grizzly  Bear  Company,  Limited,  it  may  be 
supposed,  turned  out  in  full  force  the  next  morn- 
ing; and  again  business  system  saved  the  day.  We 
put  Barnes  on  the  trail  where  we  left  it,  and  the 
rest  of  us  went  on  down  the  coast  and  ascended  the 
second  valley,  to  intercept  the  game  if  it  had  crossed 

233 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

that  way.  All  this  country  is  very  open  and  free 
from  cover  at  the  summit,  and  the  glasses  saved  us 
many  a  mile. 

At  last  we  found  our  game.  High  up  on  a 
little  snow-field  at  the  top  of  a  distant  peak 
beyond  our  valley  they  were  lying,  all  three — the" 
old  bear  motionless,  one  of  the  cubs  moving  feebly. 
So  then  we  could  end  it,  after  all.  A  sudden  revul- 
sion came  over  me.  I  was  done  with  hunting  for 
the  time.  I  did  not  care  to  make  the  long  climb 
for  the  sake  of  skinning  a  dead  bear  or  killing  a 
crippled  cub.  So  I  detailed  the  two  natives  to  go 
across  and  end  the  business,  while  I  waited  for 
Barnes.  I  was  rather  sick  of  the  affair. 

I  lay  back  in  the  sun,  alone,  and  watched  the 
wide  panorama  before  me,  on  which  the  only  sign 
of  life  was  the  two  antlike  figures  which  after  a 
time  appeared  slowly  toiling  up  the  opposite  face 
of  the  mountain.  I  half  repented  not  going,  was 
disposed  to  go  on  after.  Had  I  done  so  I  should 
have  missed  the  most  exciting  bear  hunt  I  ever  knew 
— one  in  which  I  had  no  active  part. 

The  two  brown  men  crawled  on  up,  skirting  a 
long  rent  in  the  rocks,  dodging  low  behind  some 
cover  as  they  reached  the  exposed  summit.  I  saw 
them  at  last  reach  the  rock-rim  above  the  game, 
and  knew  how  Czaroff  proposed  to  make  the  ap- 

234 


BEAR-HUNTING 

proach.  Then,  as  though  by  some  premonition,  I 
saw  the  great  gray  lump  that  had  lain  on  the  snow, 
move,  rise  to  its  feet,  take  a  pace  or  so,  and  then  lie 
down!  The  old  bear  was  not  dead.  How  large, 
how  very  large,  she  looked.  I  say  I  have  never  felt 
fear  of  a  bear,  perhaps  because  I  have  mostly  been 
too  tired  to  feel  anything  but  fatigue  when  after 
bear.  But  now,  two  miles  away,  I  felt  something 
like  buck  ague,  the  first  time  in  my  life.  I  thrilled. 
I  shivered.  I  wondered  if  the  men  could  do  their 
work — wished  and  wished  that  I  were  with  them 
now.  I  had  taken  too  much  for  granted.  The  old 
bear  was  not  dead  at  all! 

Now  the  two  younger  bears  began  to  move  slowly 
a  little  way  on  in  the  snow,  but  soon  they  stopped. 
Slowly,  catlike,  a  little  at  a  time,  I  saw  the  hunters 
approach  the  hunted  things.  My  blood  never  much 
leaped  before  in  any  hunting,  but  now  it  leaped. 
It  was  not  sport  but  tragedy  I  was  to  witness.  I 
did  not  like  to  look,  but  could  not  cease  to  gaze. 

I  saw  the  two  hunters  appear  at  the  rim  of  the 
little  pocket  where  the  bears  lay;  saw  them  crouch, 
and  aim  and  aim.  Then  came  a  spurt  of  blue,  the 
smoke  of  CzarofFs  rifle.  Then  followed  shot  after 
shot  from  both  rifles.  The  giant  grizzly  flung  her- 
self once  more  to  her  feet,  and  stood  at  bay  on  the 
snow,  which  I  saw  redden  under  her. 

235 


But  all  three  of  the  bears  kept  their  feet!  What 
bungling!  What  bungling!  They  fired  fifteen 
shots;  and  the  game  moved  on.  It  reappeared  at 
this  side  of  the  snow,  at  a  little  knoll  just  above  the 
sheer  canon  wall.  And  then  ensued  what  might 
seem,  in  telling,  a  piece  of  imaginary  hunting,  but 
which  occurred  just  as  I  say. 

The  two  cubs  moved  off  into  the  cover  once 
more.  I  saw  Kuroki  come  and  peer  over  the  edge, 
not  seeming  to  care  to  come  closer.  I  had  had  my 
eye  on  the  giant  she-bear  a  moment  before  as  she 
stood  near  the  rock-face.  When  I  turned  the  glasses 
on  her  she  was  gone!  Then  I  saw  Czaroff  crawl 
down  a  way  and  peer  down.  Even  as  I  looked  at 
the  cubs,  the  old  bear  had  let  go  and  gone  down 
the  sheer  canon  wall!  They  told  me  later  that  she 
roared  all  the  way  down.  So,  at  last,  she  died. 
Though  I  have  hunted  much,  I  never  knew  a  bear  to 
die  as  she  did,  or  to  die  so  hard.  But  hers  was  a 
noble,  a  gallant  ending  of  a  valorous  life. 

I  rushed  down  the  mountain,  forded  the  river 
below,  and  intercepted  my  men  as  they  came  down. 
They  had  not  a  hide  nor  a  hair!  The  big  bear, 
they  said,  was  a  spirit  bear,  a  devil,  which  could 
not  be  killed!  She  had  fallen  down  the  rock- face 
along  a  cascade,  plunged  over  this  fall,  and  gone  far 
out  of  sight  under  the  snow-field  at  the  floor  of  the 

236 


BEAR-HUNTING 

deep  canon.  No  hand  of  man  would  ever  get  the 
hide  of  her ;  that  was  sure  in  their  Aleut  mind.  And 
the  cubs?  They  had  supposed  them  gone  also, 
and  had  started  home,  as  they  had  worked  long 
and  were  hungry.  Then  and  there  was  discipline 
enacted.  They  had  to  turn  and  climb  the  mountain 
again  with  me.  It  was  another  hour  before  we  had 
the  crippled  cubs  killed  and  skinned,  and  dark  then 
was  at  hand.  The  great  gray  robe  must  wait  an- 
other day;  but  have  it,  I  resolved,  we  must  at  any 
hazard. 

The  next  day  the  full  personnel  of  the  Grizzly 
Bear  Company,  Limited,  was  again  afield.  We 
took  the  dory  cable,  also  an  oar  for  digging  snow, 
and  by  noon  we  were  at  the  foot  of  the  cataract 
down  which  the  old  lady  had  slid  in  her  tragic 
ending.  It  looked  discouraging,  but  our  luck  held. 

A  crack  or  rent  ran  across  the  snow-field  here, 
and  this  let  light  down  under  it  and  into  the  black 
cavern  cut  out  by  the  waterway.  Barnes  stooped 
and  looked  down  under  the  snow  at  the  upper  edge. 
He  flung  up  his  hands  in  joy.  "I  see  her!" 

Our  bear  was  lying  to  one  side  of  the  center  of 
the  snow-field,  damming  up  the  flow  of  ice  water. 
Barnes  dropped  down  into  the  crack  through  the 
snow  roof  and  slipped  over  her  neck  the  cable  which, 
standing  in  the  spray,  we  passed  down  from  above. 

237 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

Then,  slowly,  an  inch  at  a  time,  all  lifting  and  pull- 
ing together,  all  wet  to  the  skin  in  the  ice  water, 
we  hauled  her  forth,  a  monster  weight. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  grim  look  of  that 
great  gray  head  when  it  showed  above  the  rim  of 
the  snow  roof.  Hers  was  a  splendid  robe,  with- 
out a  blemish  save  where  her  nose  had  been  skinned 
in  the  slide  down  the  rocks  two  or  three  hundred 
feet,  and  one  missing  toenail,  perhaps  lost  in  the 
same  way.  More  priceless  than  any  Oriental  rug 
is  this  one  which  covers  a  certain  space  in  a  certain 
floor  today. 

A  meeting  of  the  directors  and  stockholders  of 
the  Grizzly  Bear  Company,  Limited,  was  called  for 
twelve  o'clock  that  night,  at  which  time  we  got 
home  with  the  last  of  our  six  hides,  all  secured 
within  six  days  and  under  conditions  where  every- 
thing was  against  success.  Now  we  talked  with  four 
mouths  full  and  eight  hands  in  the  stew  kettle.  In 
the  democracy  of  successful  sport  the  stocks  com- 
mon and  preferred  were  merged  in  one. 


XI 
HUNTING  THE  DEER 


XI 

HUNTING  THE  DEER 

IN  a  prominent  club  of  a  Western  city  there 
may  be  seen  a  series  of  old  German  woodcuts 
depicting  divers  fashions  of  the  chase  of  the 
deer  a  century  or  so  ago  in  Europe.  It  would  ap- 
pear that  the  main  thing  in  those  days  was  to  get 
the  deer  in  any  way  he  could  be  had.  There  are 
scenes  showing  deer  chased  by  greyhounds,  trailing 
hounds — all  sorts  of  dogs;  deer  caught  in  heavy 
nets;  deer  driven  into  pens;  deer  driven  through 
chutes  past  a  platform  containing  noblemen  firing 
upon  them  at  a  distance  of  three  or  four  yards; 
deer  pursued  by  horsemen,  footmen — all  sorts  of 
men.  In  short,  there  would  seem  to  have  existed 
at  the  time  these  cuts  were  made  a  vast,  delirious 
desire  to  exterminate  the  whole  deer  family  as  soon 
as  possible. 

Something  of  that  same  desire  seems  to  have 
existed  from  that  day  to  this.  The  chase  of  the  stag 
has  always  been  held  to  be  one  of  the  highest  forms 
of  all  sport;  and  today,  much  as  in  the  past,  the 

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LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

game  seems  to  be  to  give  the  said  stag  as  small  a 
show  as  possible. 

If  memory  serves  aptly  as  to  figures,  there  were 
shipped  one  year  from  Maine,  subject  to  the  game 
laws,  not  less  than  five  thousand  two  hundred  and 
eighty-three  carcasses  of  white-tailed  deer,  not 
counting  those  consumed  within  the  state.  The 
deer-license  fund  of  Maine  annually  makes  an  enor- 
mous sum,  itself  only  a  tithe  of  the  money  spent  in 
the  state  by  deerhunters.  Indeed,  in  Maine,  New 
Brunswick,  and  Ontario,  moose  and  deer  are  re- 
garded as  valuable  state  resources.  In  all  the  states 
of  the  Union  that  have  deer,  stiff  license  fees  are 
exacted  from  residents  and  non-residents;  and  few 
states  allow  the  shipment  of  more  than  one  deer — 
that  one  to  be  accompanied  by  the  killer  of  it.  The 
day  of  five-cent  venison  is  gone,  and  in  these  days 
a  deer  is  a  deer. 

Yet,  keen  as  has  been  the  chase  of  the  stag  all 
these  centuries,  and  increasingly  efficient  as  have 
become  all  the  agencies  employed  against  him,  the 
white-tailed  deer  of  America  at  least  holds  his  own 
astonishingly  well.  There  are  more  deer  in  Maine 
and  New  Brunswick  than  there  were  twenty  years 
ago.  The  hunting  areas  of  Michigan,  Wisconsin, 
and  Minnesota  are  now  more  restricted,  but  the  cur- 
rent season  shows  the  stock  of  deer  about  as  large 

242 


HUNTING  THE  DEER 

as  ever.  Indeed,  there  are  more  deer  now  in  these 
states  than  there  were  when  lumbering  operations 
were  at  their  height  and  most  of  the  camps  were 
fed  on  venison. 

The  marketing  of  venison  in  the  cities  has  become 
a  far  more  difficult  proposition,  and  the  bag  limit 
has  been  cut  down.  Given  any  kind  of  a  chance 
the  Virginia  deer  will  take  care  of  itself.  Natural- 
ists rank  the  species  with  the  bob-white  quail  and 
the  black  bear  in  ability  to  fend  for  itself  in  a  semi- 
civilized  country. 

Nearly  every  man  who  hunts  at  all  has  had 
dreams  from  his  youth  up  of  killing  a  deer  some 
time.  He  pictures  the  whole  thing  out  to  himself, 
and  always  makes  himself  out  a  hero  in  the  experi- 
ence. Sometimes  he  lives  to  see  his  deer — perhaps 
to  kill  him — and  sometimes  he  is  not  much  of  a  hero; 
but,  whether  or  not  he  does  or  is,  he  holds  this  well- 
nigh  universal  human  ambition,  that  of  sqme  time 
slaying  one  of  the  wariest  and  noblest  creatures  of 
the  wilderness,  a  stag.  Mostly  his  stag  is  a  doe. 

There  is  no  animal  more  intimately  mingled  with 
hunting  romance  or  hunting  traditions — none  which 
serves  more  to  set  a  hunter's  blood  a-tingle.  Per- 
haps there  is  more  excitement  about  deer  hunting 
than  any  other  kind  of  big-game  hunting. 

For  instance,  I  have  killed  many  bears  of  all 
243 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

sorts ;  but,  though  I  have  not  cared  for  many  years 
to  kill  a  deer,  a  recent  hunt  developed  the  fact  that 
there  is  fully  as  much  nervous  jolt  in  seeing  a  good, 
big  deer  as  there  is  in  meeting  a  bear,  though  the 
two  sensations  are  entirely  different.  Perhaps  it  is 
the  great  alertness,  beauty,  power,  and  speed  of 
the  deer  that  make  the  hunter's  blood  start  and  his 
eyes  shine  eagerly.  Getting  your  bear  after  you  see 
him  is  rather  more  of  a  business  undertaking.  In 
any  case  the  zest  of  hunting  the  deer  is  centuries 
old,  and  is  still  as  keen  as  ever. 

As  showing  the  popularity  of  the  sport  of  deer- 
hunting,  it  is  estimated  that  there  were  between 
forty  thousand  and  sixty  thousand  deerhunters  out 
in  Wisconsin  alone  last  season ;  the  figures  are  hard 
to  obtain  with  exactness.  Express  cars  coming 
down  out  of  the  pine  woods  in  the  month  of  Novem- 
ber sometimes  are  packed  almost  full  of  deer  car- 
casses— not  so  many  now  as  when  two  or  three 
deer  might  legally  be  exported,  but  still  hundreds 
and  hundreds  in  the  total. 

So  it  seems  we  Americans  may  still  enjoy  in 
goodly  numbers  the  ancient  and  royal  sport  of  hunt- 
ing deer.  We  should  be  able  always  to  enjoy  it,  did 
we  look  upon  the  matter  in  a  businesslike  way  and 
refrain  from  killing  all  the  deer  we  could  at  all 
possible  times.  The  likelihood  is  that  in  view  of 

244 


HUNTING  THE  DEER 

the  great  interest  that  attaches  to  this  splendid  game 
creature,  measures  will  be  taken  at  an  early  date  to 
prevent  its  extermination.  State  preserves,  private 
preserves,  interstate  commerce  laws,  local  game 
laws,  and,  best  of  all,  a  public  sentiment  back  of 
these  laws,  will  very  likely  conspire  to  leave  us  the 
Virginia  deer  for  many  decades — let  us  hope  for 
many  centuries — to  come.  /, 

The  most  curious  phenomenon  of  our  deerhunt- 
ing  today  is  the  fact  that  literally  armies  of  hunt- 
ers of  all  sorts,  rich  and  poor,  go  out  each  fall  for 
deer. 

The  fall  hunt  is  not  so  much  a  business  proposi- 
tion in  the  South  as  in  the  North,  but  in  much  of  the 
pine  wilderness  of  the  North  it  comes  near  to  being 
made  a  business ;  and  the  sport  in  its  different  phases 
has  been  brought  to  a  high  degree  of  efficiency. 

There  are  several  ways  of  hunting  the  white- 
tailed  deer,  varying  with  the  conditions  of  the 
country  where  it  is  found.  In  the  South  dogs  are 
still  used  in  the  canebrakes,  though  hounding  is 
prohibited  by  law  in  the  states  of  the  North.  The 
shotgun  is  used  in  the  South,  but  not  in  the  North. 
In  some  parts  of  the  South,  "breasting  deer"  is 
practiced,  a  party  of  horsemen  in  line  driving  them 
out  of  their  cover  in  the  grass.  I  once  had  keen 
sport  coursing  deer  in  the  old  Indian  Territory  with 

245 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

greyhounds — and  it  took  a  bit  of  riding  to  see  a 
finish  there. 

Watching  for  a  deer  on  a  runway  or  at  a  salt-lie  ^ 
has  been  known  to  be  successful,  and  more  than  one 
camp  cook  has  made  a  deer-lick  out  of  a  pork  bar- 
rel. "Shining"  deer  by  jack-light  in  the  summer- 
time round  the  edges  of  lakes  or  streams  is  perhaps 
the  most  abominable  of  all  ways  of  being  lawless. 

As  deer  are  hunted  today  on  the  big  camp-hunts 
of  the  North,  the  two  commonest  forms  of  the  sport 
are  driving  and  still-hunting.  The  latter  is  more 
difficult,  the  former  perhaps  more  generally  success- 
ful. Indeed,  most  of  the  deer  killed  in  the  woods 
are  driven  to  the  gun  either  by  intent  or  accident. 
When  the  big  influx  of  hunters  begins  on  the  open- 
ing day  the  deer  are  disturbed  and  run  about  a 
great  deal — more  than  they  would  normally,  even 
in  the  rutting  season;  so  that  a  man  passing  across 
the  country  or  sitting  by  some  runway  may  now 
and  then  get  an  unearned  shot  at  a  deer  that  has 
been  driven  by  some  one  else. 

It  seems  to  be  the  custom  now  for  men  to  go 
deerhunting  in  large  parties.  The  railroads  used 
to  solicit  communities  for  deerhunting  parties.  One 
morning  at  a  Wisconsin  town  a  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  deerhunters,  all  from  Ohio  and  Indiana,  stepped 
casually  off  the  train.  In  most  of  this  Northern 

246 


HUNTING  THE  DEER 

country  large  camps,  each  with  its  own  cook,  locate 
here  and  there,  either  in  big  tents  or  in  abandoned 
logging  camps.  With  so  many  men  in  camp  the 
drive  is  the  most  natural  fashion  of  hunting,  though 
in  order  to  practice  it  successfully  the  leader  must 
have  a  good  knowledge  of  the  country.  Of  course, 
if  only  two  or  three  men  are  out  still-hunting,  very 
often  a  little  drive  will  be  made,  one  man  going 
through  a  clump  of  bushes  while  the  others  wait 
on  the  farther  edge.  Little  or  big,  the  principle  of 
the  drive  is  the  same. 

Deer  move  about,  like  all  other  wild  animals, 
mostly  in  the  morning  or  in  the  evening ;  in  the  day- 
time they  lie  under  cover.  As  dawn  approaches 
they  are  ready  to  start  out  at  any  small  alarm,  so 
that  is  the  best  time  to  make  a  drive.  Suppose  we 
have  a  spruce  thicket  shot  through  with  second 
growth  or  crossed  by  a  cedar  swamp,  making  a 
heavy  cover  half  a  mile  or  a  mile  across.  If  much 
of  the  surrounding  country  is  more  or  less  open 
this  thicket  is  apt  to  conceal  several  deer.  To  drive 
them  out  is  really  a  very  cruel  thing  to  the  hunters 
who  make  the  drive,  for  they  will  be  obliged  to  get 
up  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  eat  a  break- 
fast by  candlelight,  and  walk  or  ride  in  the  dark — 
perhaps  several  miles — to  the  appointed  cover. 

The  drive  is  very  often  made  against  the  wind, 
247 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

but  much  depends  upon  the  lay  of  the  country. 
Before  the  drivers  begin  their  work  they  allow 
plenty  of  time — perhaps  half  an  hour  or  more — for 
the  hunters  to  take  their  stands  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  thicket.  Each  man  gets  on  top  of  some  emi- 
nence, so  that  he  may  shoot  down  and  not  across 
the  country.  A  good  stand  is  a  hill  at  the  edge  of 
some  marsh,  where  a  path  leads  out  of  the  thicket. 
A  driven  deer  will  not  always  stick  to  his  runway, 
but  he  is  most  apt  to  pass  out  at  some  gap  of  the 
high  country  surrounding  the  thicket.  The  hunter 
on  stand  usually  gets  on  top  of  a  high  stump,  so 
that  he  can  cover  as  much  country  as  possible — 
say,  two  hundred  yards  on  each  side.  He  ought 
to  be  at  his  station  as  soon  as  it  is  light  enough 
to  shoot,  though  several  drives  may  be  made  later 
in  the  day. 

The  sound  of  a  shot  puts  every  station  man  on 
his  feet,  eagerly  watching  his  edge  of  the  cover. 
Perhaps,  long  before  he  hears  the  voices  of  the  beat- 
ers approaching,  he  may  hear  the  faintest  snapping 
of  a  twig  and  wonder  whether  it  is  the  work  of  the 
wind,  a  bird  or  a  deer.  Then  all  at  once,  perhaps, 
ghostlike — not  with  any  sudden  crashing  burst  of 
speed,  but  gently,  easily,  silently,  astonishingly 
gracefully — a  deer  breaks  cover  before  him  or  at 
one  side,  you  never  can  tell  just  how  or  where  or 

248 


HUNTING  THE  DEER 

when.  That  is  the  hunter's  chance.  If  he  does  not 
kill  he  is  sure  to  be  disliked  by  all  the  rest  of  the 
hunting  pack. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  hit  a  running  deer,  and  few 
deer  are  killed  standing.  As  a  deer  breaks  from 
cover  it  does  not  seem  to  be  very  much  alarmed. 
It  may  pause,  look  back,  and  trot  or  lope  slowly 
ahead.  If  much  alarmed  it  will  run  steadily,  alter- 
nating low  jumps  with  very  high  ones ;  but  it  rarely 
has  the  steady  speed  of  the  antelope  in  open  country. 
There  are  all  sorts  of  chances  that  interfere  with  the 
shot,  but  if  you  have  two  or  three  seconds  of  sight 
at  a  deer  inside  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  he 
ought  to  be  your  deer. 

The  sense  of  scent  in  the  deer  is  very  acute ;  and 
as  it  runs  into  the  wind  it  is  on  the  alert  to  catch 
any  scent  of  danger  ahead.  Hence  the  value  of  an 
elevated  position,  for  then  the  deer  will  not 
scent  you  so  readily,  if  at  all.  Guides  say  a  deer 
will  not  smell  you  if  you  are  eight  feet  above  it. 
Also  a  running  deer  will  not  see  you  if  you  move, 
though  your  slightest  movement  will  be  detected  by 
a  standing  deer. 

In  any  case,  when  you  see  your  deer  you  have 
your  chance;  and  you  must  fire  promptly,  being 
careful  not  to  shoot  over  the  rim  of  the  next  hill, 
endangering  the  life  of  another  watcher  or  one  of 

249 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

the  drivers.  Shoot  downhill  or  into  the  flank  of  the 
next  hill — never  into  the  free  air. 

The  height  of  the  art  is  to  kill  your  deer  clean 
with  your  first  or  second  shot;  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  in  actual  hunting  conditions,  most  amateurs 
worry  down  their  deer  in  the  chance-medley,  hap- 
hazard work  of  rapid  rifle  fire.  In  some  way  they 
get  the  range  better  after  a  while. 

The  common  cause  of  missing  is,  of  course,  over- 
shooting. Here  comes  in  the  astonishing  faculty 
a  buck  deer  has  for  disturbing  the  entire  nervous 
system  of  an  able-bodied  man.  Unless  he  has  the 
coolness  of  the  natural  hunter  he  is  apt  to  bang 
away  without  getting  down  into  his  hind  sight. 
This  is  why  as  many  deer  are  wounded  as  are  killed. 
Of  course,  a  hunter  with  cold  nerve  does  not  take 
all  sorts  of  chances ;  but  if  a  deer  passes  him  in  good 
view  under  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  he  simply 
kills  it — that  is  all.  The  man  who  gets  rattled  will 
miss  many  shots  at  forty  or  fifty  yards — and  have 
many  of  them  to  miss  too;  for  sometimes  a  deer 
will  break  cover  astonishingly  close  at  hand. 

Watching  for  deer  on  a  stand  at  dawn  of  a  No- 
vember morning  in  the  North  is  cold  work,  the  more 
so  since  it  is  forbidden  to  move  round  very  much. 
If  the  top  of  your  stump  seems  cold  you  might  cover 
it  with  a  bunch  of  dried  fern  or  bracken.  A  hunter 

250 


HUNTING  THE  DEER 

has  been  known  to  take  along  a  felt  pad  for  this 
same  purpose;  and  it  is  not  a  bad  idea.  A  macki- 
naw  coat  over  all,  a  buckskin  shirt  underneath,  then 
a  waistcoat,  a  heavy  flannel  shirt,  and  one  or  two 
wool  undershirts  are  none  too  much  clothing  some- 
times. 

Today,  of  course,  the  hunter  should  always  wear 
a  red  hat  or  cap.  If  he  has  none  he  certainly 
should  pin  a  red  handkerchief  on  top  of  his  hat. 
Another  red  handkerchief  about  his  neck  or  down 
his  back  is  all  the  better.  Some  wear  red  sweaters 
or  scarlet  coats.  In  short,  whereas  the  deer-hunter 
once  sought  to  blend  the  color  of  his  raiment  with 
that  of  surrounding  Nature,  he  now  does  the  re- 
verse as  much  as  possible.  These  bright  colors  do 
not  prevent  success  in  deer  hunting.  I  have  seen  a 
party  of  thirty  men  so  accoutered,  and  each  one 
went  out  with  his  deer  in  less  than  ten  days  after 
entering  the  woods. 

Do  not  fail  to  have  the  red  hat.  There  are  many 
hunters  who  are  anxious  not  to  hurt  you,  and  you 
should  aid  them  as  much  as  possible.  In  the  course 
of  the  day  you  may  hear  a  hundred  shots  fired 
by  all  sorts  of  men.  In  a  recent  hunt  a  young 
man  was  shot  and  killed  within  two  miles  of  our 
hunting  ground.  Another  man  was  shot  through 
the  wrist.  Twelve  men  were  killed  the  first  week 

251 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

of  the  Wisconsin  season.  These  things  speak  for 
red  hats. 

So  clad,  alone  in  the  curious,  still,  soft  gray 
diffused  light  of  the  dawn,  the  chill  leaves  your  true 
hunter's  heart  when  he  hears  across  the  forest  that 
most  stirring  of  all  hunting  sounds — the  crisp,  sharp 
crack  of  a  rifle.  When  you  hear  it  you  wonder  what 
luck  the  shooter  had,  what  luck  you  are  going  to 
have  if  his  luck  has  been  bad  and  the  game  happens 
to  come  your  way.  Perhaps,  if  you  are  an  amateur, 
you  fidget  a  bit,  and  look  through  your  rifle-sights 
and  wonder  if  you  are  going  to  miss. 

It  is  far  better  not  to  miss.  Your  friends  will 
be  polite  about  it;  but  the  truth  is  the  whole  hunt 
hates  a  man  who  misses  after  enjoying  the  product 
of  the  whole  machinery  of  a  drive  in  which  per- 
haps a  dozen  men  are  enlisted.  It  behooves  you 
to  draw  fine  and  take  that  second  sight,  not  to  blaze 
away  as  you  would  at  quail  with  a  shotgun. 

In  good  deer  country  a  well-planned  drive  will 
usually  turn  out  a  deer  or  two,  and  one  or  all  will 
be  apt  to  be  killed  if  the  party  is  made  up  of  experts. 
A  great  many  deerhunting  parties  hang  together 
year  after  year,  and  there  is  a  sort  of  weeding-out 
process  that  eliminates  poor  shots  and  men  of  jumpy 
nerves.  The  writer  has  known  half  a  dozen  deer  to 
be  killed  in  a  day  by  a  well-organized  driving  party. 

252 


HUNTING  THE  DEER 

This  method  probably  accounts  for  three-fourths  of 
the  deer  killed  in  the  Northern  hunting  grounds 
these  days. 

The  still-hunter  plays  a  different  game.  He  hunts 
alone,  or  with  perhaps  a  single  companion,  both 
absolutely  refraining  from  speech;  and  he  has  his 
greatest  expectations  in  the  early  morning  or  late 
evening.  He  passes  across  his  chosen  country 
slowly,  stopping  sometimes,  waiting  and  looking 
about.  If  he  knows  there  is  a  big  drive  going  on 
somewhere  within  a  few  miles  he  feels  it  is  just 
as  well  to  be  in  a  place  where  he  can  intercept  any 
deer  that  are  driven  out  of  cover.  As  is  the  case 
with  the  drive,  his  style  of  sport  is  something  of  a 
gamble;  but  it  is  a  gamble  in  which  success  comes 
to  the  skillful  man.  You  cannot  blunder  through 
the  woods,  rushing  up  to  the  top  of  one  ridge  after 
another  and  paying  no  attention  to  the  direction  of 
the  wind,  and  have  any  just  hope  of  getting  your 
deer. 

A  tracking  snow  is  always  coveted  by  the  still 
hunter;  and  the  highest  form  of  his  art  is  to  follow 
a  big,  selected  buck  mile  after  mile,  to  come  on  him 
lying  down — to  jump  him  and  then  kill  him.  Not 
every  man  can  do  this,  but  it  can  be  done  by  the 
man  who  knows  all  the  angles  of  his  business. 
When  you  have  killed  a  buck  in  that  way  you 

253 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

are  apt  to  value  it  more  than  one  killed  on  a 
drive. 

Small  parties  of  deerhunters — especially  those 
not  well  acquainted  with  their  chosen  country — 
usually  do  still-hunting  and  not  driving.  Of  course, 
they  run  across  many  deer  started  by  other  hunters 
scattered  all  over  the  country,  but  the  habit  of  con- 
tinual alertness  and  silence  remains  of  utmost  value 
just  the  same.  Sometimes  tracks  in  the  sand  or 
snow  of  a  path  will  show  the  still  hunter  that  he 
is  at  a  good  deer-crossing.  Perhaps,  even,  he  may 
find  a  double  runway — two  deerpaths  crossing — 
and  so  double  his  chances  of  a  shot. 

It  will  do  no  harm  for  him  to  sit  a  while,  silent 
and  motionless,  near  to  some  such  spot.  He  is  more 
apt  to  get  a  deer  in  this  way  than  by  pushing  round 
in  the  bush.  It  is  dull  and  rather  lonesome  work, 
but  it  has  the  law  of  averages  solidly  behind  it — 
especially  if  there  are  very  many  other  hunters 
knocking  around  in  the  country. 

There  are  few  rules  for  deerstalking  beyond 
those  of  care  and  silence,  though  books  have  been 
written  on  the  art.  You  see  your  deer  usually  when 
you  are  not  expecting  him;  you  shoot,  and  perhaps 
you  kill — that  is  the  story  of  seventy-five  per  cent 
of  the  deer  killed.  Of  course,  when  you  do  see  your 
deer  you  must  take  your  chance  promptly,  for 

254 


HUNTING  THE  DEER 

white-tailed  deer  are  not  so  abundant  as  rabbits,  and 
it  may  be  days  before  you  get  another  shot. 

Remember,  therefore,  two  things — to  get  down 
in  the  back  sight  and  to  get  well  forward  on  your 
deer.  With  a  black-powder  rifle  one  had  to  hold 
well  ahead  of  the  deer  if  running;  but  that  is  not 
necessary  with  the  high-power  rifle  of  today.  Not 
long  ago  I  killed  a  running  deer  at  two  hundred  and 
fifty  yards.  It  was  shot  through  the  shoulders,  yet 
the  aim  was  just  at  the  front  edge  of  the  body  and 
barely  inside  the  hair  line.  With  the  rifle,  as  with 
the  shotgun,  the  more  swing  the  less  lead.  The 
shoulder  shot,  of  course,  is  the  best.  A  shot  far 
back  in  the  body  cripples  and  loses  many  and  many 
a  good  deer — more's  the  pity ! 

When  your  deer  is  down  be  sure  it  is  down  for 
keeps.  Stay  on  top  of  your  stump,  where  you  can 
see  it,  until  you  are  sure  it  is  dead.  The  next  thing 
is  to  bleed  your  deer.  Of  course  you  know  that 
the  sticking  place — so-called — is  at  the  base  of  the 
neck.  You  should  sever  the  large  bloodvessels  there 
and  also  the  windpipe.  Drag  the  deer  so  that  it  will 
lie  with  its  head  down  hill  if  possible.  You  may 
then  finish  the  rest  of  the  work  if  you  do  not  rely 
wholly  upon  your  guide — as  so  many  do  who  ought 
not  to.  Let  it  bleed  well,  then  pull  it  round  with  its 
head  uphill. 

255 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

In  cleaning  a  deer  many  or  perhaps  most  men  rip 
it  full  length  from  neck  to  tail.  That  is  not  the  best 
way,  for  it  allows  dirt  to  get  into  the  cavity  and 
makes  the  carcass  harder  to  handle  well.  The  cor- 
rect way  is  to  cut  entirely  free  round  the  vent,  so 
that  the  rectal  tract  is  entirely  freed  from  all  at- 
tachment. Leave  it  then,  and  do  not  split  down 
between  the  hind  legs  at  all.  Go  into  the  abdomen 
well  ahead  of  the  hind  legs,  and  open  the  body  for- 
ward only  to  the  edge  of  the  ribs.  Now  you  have  all 
the  viscera  freed  at  each  end,  since  you  already  have 
cut  off  the  windpipe ;  and  with  a  little  cutting  at  the 
liver  and  tearing  at  the  heart  and  lights — which  will 
bloody  your  arms  above  the  elbows,  very  likely — 
you  can  bring  out  all  the  viscera  at  once  and  still 
leave  the  body  of  the  deer  clean,  not  mussed  up, 
and  not  very  much  disfigured.  Be  careful  not  to 
cut  your  hands  with  your  knife  while  feeling  round 
inside. 

To  get  a  big  deer  out  of  the  woods  is  a  hard  job 
for  two  strong  men.  If  you  are  coming  for  your 
deer  soon  you  do  not  need  even  to  hang  it  up,  but 
it  is  best  to  do  so.  The  common  way  is  to  pierce 
the  gambrels  with  a  crosspiece  and  swing  it  up  by 
the  hind  legs ;  but  a  deer  will  keep  better  and  drain 
better  and  shed  the  weather  better  if  hung  up  by 
the  nose  or  neck.  If  you  have  to  drag  your  deer 

256 


HUNTING  THE  DEER 

out  to  a  trail  hang  it  up  there.  If  you  leave  it  in 
the  bush  have  a  blazed  trail  so  you  will  be  able  to 
find  it  again.  Better  pull  out  a  green  branch  or  so 
into  the  road  at  the  point  where  your  blazed  trail 
strikes  it;  then  you  can  find  your  deer  later  when 
you  have  a  wagon  or  other  means  of  taking  it  out 
of  the  woods. 

A  deer  can  easily  be  brought  out  of  the  woods  on 
a  horse;  the  better  if  the  latter  has  a  cow-saddle 
with  a  good  horn.  Cut  slits  for  thongs  above  the 
hocks  and  knees,  and  cut  another  slit  along  the 
brisket.  Let  two  or  more  men  pick  up  the  deer  and, 
approaching  the  horse  very  carefully,  drop  it  into 
the  saddle  in  such  a  way  that  the  horn  sticks  through 
the  slit  brisket.  Now  tie  down  the  legs  at  their 
middle  joints  to  the  cinch-ring  on  each  side.  Your 
deer  will  be  on  to  stay  if  you  have  been  thoughtful 
enough  to  cinch  your  saddle  tightly  in  advance.  If 
you  forget  this  you  are  apt  to  have  a  ruined  deer 
and  a  ruined  horse.  Few  horses  will  pack  a  deer, 
and  even  Indian  ponies  sometimes  have  to  be  blind- 
folded while  the  deer  is  being  loaded  on  the  saddle. 

Most  deerhunters  wagon  their  supplies  into  camp 
and  then  go  out  on  foot  for  their  hunting,  horses 
rarely  being  used.  The  writer  was  one  of  a  very 
interesting  and  highly  efficient  hunting  party  in  Wis- 
consin during  the  past  season.  We  had  a  dozen 

257 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

or  more  Indian  ponies — stolid,  rational  little  brutes, 
which  could  carry  weight  and  which  never  got  ex- 
cited in  any  situation.  Our  hunt  had  rather  a 
Scotch  Highlands  flavor,  for  we  packed  in  all  our 
deer  on  pony  back.  It  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
three  or  four  ponies,  each  with  his  deer,  plodding 
patiently  along  the  homeward  trail  in  the  evening. 

One  man  collected  three  deer  on  two  ponies  one 
day.  On  yet  another  day  a  pony  with  a  deer  lashed 
to  him  got  away  in  the  bush  and  was  lost  for  some 
hours,  only  to  be  found  in  camp  at  dusk,  patiently 
waiting  to  be  unloaded.  With  our  pony  train,  a 
number  of  automatic  rifles,  big  log  camps,  a  good 
cook,  good  guides,  and  a  leader  perfectly  acquainted 
with  the  country  through  many  years'  hunting  there, 
we  had  the  most  perfect  example  of  deadly  efficient, 
wholly  comfortable,  modern  deerhunting  I  ever 
saw.  Though  we  did  not  catch  them  in  nets  as 
they  did  in  ancient  Germany,  or  drive  them  through 
chutes  past  the  firing  stand,  we  got  them  just  the 
same;  which  seems  to  be  the  raison  d'etre  of  all 
deer  hunts. 

Even  in  camp  your  deer  is  not  yet  home.  You 
tie  in  his  ear  the  first  coupon  from  your  hunting  li- 
cense, which,  maybe,  cost  you  twenty-five  dollars. 
At  the  railroad  station  the  agent  ties  on  another 
coupon.  Then  he  tears  off  another  coupon  and 

258 


HUNTING  THE  DEER 

sends  it  to  the  state  game  warden.  You  weigh  your 
deer,  pay  the  expressage  on  it,  and  then  accompany 
it  home  on  the  same  train.  By  the  time  you  get  it 
home  to  your  city  and  carry  it  home  in  a  taxicab, 
and  then  tip  the  butcher  to  hang  it  up  for  you  in 
his  icehouse,  you  are  approaching  the  closing  scenes 
of  a  deerhunt  today. 


XII 
GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 


XII 
GAME  LAWS   AND   GAME   SUPPLY 

AT  a  recent  meeting  of  a  club  of  big-game 
hunters  in  an  Eastern  city,  a  small  band  of 
Blackfoot  Indians  furnished  a  part  of  the 
evening's  entertainment  by  giving  some  of  their 
tribal  songs  and  dances.  They  were  professional 
Indians,  so  to  speak,  employed  by  a  railroad  for  ad- 
vertising purposes.  Another  part  of  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  evening  was  a  series  of  moving  pictures 
and  stereopticon  views  from  the  West. 

One  of  these  views,  apparently  a  colored  repro- 
duction of  one  of  the  Catlin  paintings,  showed  a 
hunting  scene — an  Indian  running  a  buffalo  and 
shooting  it  with  bow  and  arrow.  When  this  life- 
size  picture  was  flashed  on  the  screen  every  one  of 
the  Black  feet  gave  a  wild  whoop  of  joy.  It  took 
them  all  back  to  the  old  days  of  the  buffalo,  days 
that  the  Indian  has  never  forgotten. 

Curiously  enough,  on  the  morning  following  this 
incident  there  came  to  the  desk  of  the  writer  a  clip- 
ping from  a  Kansas  City  newspaper  which  some- 

263 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

times  prints  news  taken  from  its  own  files  of  a  date 
forty  years  earlier.  The  date  in  question  puts  us 
back  in  the  time  of  1873.  There  are  three  curiosi- 
ties in  this  bit  of  reprint.  One  is  the  following  ad- 
vertisement : 

"Gentlemen's  heavy  shawls,  worth  $5;  now 
$3-50." 

Gentlemen  wear  overcoats  today  and  not  shawls. 
If  you  can  remember  the  days  when  men  wore 
shawls  you  can  remember  the  buffalo.  Two  other 
items  read  as  below: 

"One  of  the  Kansas  City  party  of  mighty  hunt- 
ers who  went  out  into  the  Dodge  City  region  after 
buffaloes  a  few  weeks  ago  writes  to  the  Times  as 
follows:  'We  have  been  out  only  thirteen  days, 
traveling  about  twenty  miles  a  day,  and  we  have 
killed  thirty-one  buffaloes,  seven  antelopes,  one 
deer,  one  badger,  two  gray  wolves  and  one  coyote, 
all  of  which,  except  the  buffaloes  and  antelopes,  we 
skinned  and  brought  in.' ' 

"Prairie  chickens  have  gone  up  to  two  dollars 
and  quails  to  seventy-five  cents  a  dozen;  but  you 
can  get  plenty  of  buffalo  meat  at  three  to  five  cents, 
antelope  at  six  to  seven  cents,  and  venison  at  six 

264 


GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 

to  eight  cents  a  pound,  as  well  as  wild  ducks  at  one 
dollar  to  one  dollar  and  a  half  a  dozen  and  wild 
geese  at  forty  to  sixty  cents  a  dozen." 

If  you  wish  a  definite  comparison  in  the  way  of 
game  supplies  of  the  past  and  present,  consult  the 
current  market  lists.  It  would  be  somewhat  difficult 
today  to  purchase  wild  geese  at  even  the  maximum 
price  above  quoted — sixty  cents  a  dozen.  What  a 
world  of  change  in  the  wild  life  of  America  there 
has  been  in  the  past  forty  years! 

And  yet,  just  to  show  what  might  have  been  done 
— in  part  at  least — witness  another  newspaper  clip- 
ping, from  Plains,  Montana,  bearing  the  date  of  De- 
cember 26,  1913 : 

"Plains  witnessed  the  shipment  of  a  car  of  buffa- 
loes last  Saturday.  A  bunch  of  ten  were  driven 
down  by  Charles  Allard  and  his  crew,  and  four  were 
shipped  to  Butte,  one  bought  here  by  C.  H.  Rit- 
tenour,  of  the  McGowan  Commercial  Company, 
and  the  balance  herded  back  to  the  range. 
The  animals  were  all  in  fine  condition.  The  one  re- 
tained was  a  cow  weighing  six  hundred  pounds, 
which  has  been  butchered,  and  the  meat  is  being 
retailed.  It  is  to  the  credit  of  Mr.  Rittenour  that 
no  advance  was  made  in  the  price  of  this  choice 
meat  to  the  consumers,  the  McGowan  Company  re- 

265 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

tailing  it  at  current  beef  prices.    Down  in  Butte  this 
meat  sells  round  fifty  cents  a  pound." 

There  would  seem  to  be  no  reason  to  doubt  the 
accuracy  of  the  foregoing;  and,  indeed,  Christmas 
buffalo  meat  has  long  been  more  than  a  semi-occa- 
sional novelty  in  the  West.  When  the  Canadian 
Government  purchased  the  Pablo-Allard  herd  of 
buffaloes  of  the  Flathead  Reservation  it  was  found 
impossible  to  round  up  and  collect  all  the  buffaloes. 
Occasionally,  since  then,  some  of  the  old  bulls  have 
been  killed;  and  now,  it  seems,  the  owner  does  not 
hesitate  to  sacrifice  even  a  cow  of  the  species. 

In  any  case  Allard  grew  weary  of  being  the  prac- 
tical protector  of  the  species  when  our  own  Gov- 
ernment refused  to  buy  his  buffaloes  and  allowed 
them  to  be  shipped  outside  this  country.  These 
specimens  are  the  fag-ends  of  the  largest  herds  of 
buffalo  left  alive  in  our  own  Republic.  There  would 
have  been  no  difficulty  in  raising  large  numbers  of 
them  under  government  care  in  this  country,  just 
as  has  been  done  in  the  Canadian  herd  at  Wain- 
wright,  where  some  hundreds  of  calves  are  now 
born  annually,  and  where  there  is  increase  ready 
for  sale  or  other  distribution. 

In  this  country  every  man  is  as  good  as  his  neigh- 
bor— and  a  little  better.  We  all  of  us  feel  entitled 

266 


GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 

to  special  privileges,  to  the  extent  of  having  just 
what  we  want.  As  to  the  other  fellow,  he  feels  pre- 
cisely as  we  do  about  special  privileges.  Obviously 
anything — even  a  law  of  the  United  States — which 
interferes  with  anyone's  special  privilege  is  "uncon- 
stitutional." 

State  laws  in  the  ancient  warden  system  have  long 
ago  been  accepted  as  practically  worthless  in  the 
protection  of  our  game.  Under  this  system  we  have 
seen  our  game  disappear  almost  in  geometrical  pro- 
gression year  by  year;  and  its  disappearance  is  the 
answer  to  the  state  game  warden  system.  The  dif- 
ference between  sixty  cents  a  dozen  for  wild  geese 
and,  say,  six  dollars  each  for  wild  geese  is  some- 
thing fairly  to  be  called  a  measure  of  the  game  war- 
den system  of  the  United  States. 

When  it  comes  down  to  adequate  analysis  of  this 
whole  question  of  open  shooting  in  America,  the 
thing  simply  resolves  itself  into  that  ancient  propo- 
sition of  special  privilege.  For  a  long  time  you 
could  get  away  with  special  privilege  in  America; 
but  that  day  has  gone  by  or  is  passing.  The  trou- 
ble with  some  of  us  is  that  we  cannot  realize 
that  it  has  gone  by,  and  that  we  still  want  to  live 
in  the  good  old  times  when  it  was  fashionable  to 
kill  a  man  if  we  did  not  like  the  color  of  his  hair. 
All  sorts  of  men,  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  are 

267 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

wailing  against  the  iniquity  of  anything  which  re- 
stricts them  in  their  pleasure.  All  sorts  of  arguments 
are  used,  most  of  them  no  more  than  assertions. 

For  instance,  one  man  explains  that  it  is  not  the 
shooting  which  has  killed  American  game,  but  "ad- 
vancing civilization."  That  commentator  overlooks 
the  extinction  of  the  buffalo,  the  early  extinction  of 
the  elk,  the  bighorn  and  other  large  game  animals ; 
and  overlooks  also  the  millions  of  head  of  wild  game 
marketed  in  our  great  cities.  Presumably  he  thinks 
these  animals  were  not  shot,  but  merely  died  from 
contact  with  civilization.  To  a  dispassionate  reasoner 
the  result  would  seem  much  the  same  in  each  case. 

The  most  naive  and  artless  statement  at  hand — 
covering  this  question  of  special  privilege — comes 
from  a  Western  state,  where  some  of  the  shooters, 
by  reason  of  local  conditions,  appear  to  be  deprived 
by  Federal  statute  of  part  or  most  of  the  shooting 
to  which  they  have  been  accustomed  in  the  past. 
Since  the  argument  advanced  is  about  as  frank 
and  about  as  empty  as  those  from  any  other  source, 
it  may  perhaps  be  well — just  for  once — to  quote 
part  of  this  special  plea  for  special  privilege: 

"On  the  question  of  migratory  birds  permit  us 
to  view  it  from  the  practical  standpoint  of  those 
situated  in  the  middle  section  of  our  country.  Dur- 

268 


GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 

ing  the  fall  of  the  year  there  is  practically  no  water 
in  our  lakes;  in  fact,  after  a  drought  like  that  of 
1913  there  is  not  one  lake  in  ten  in  our  middle  sec- 
tion that  contains  any  water  whatever.  On  an  av- 
erage we  do  not  have  sufficient  water  for  fall  shoot- 
ing more  than  one  year  out  of  five,  and  it  is  well 
known  that  ducks  and  geese  will  not  stop  unless 
there  is  water.  In  addition,  the  progress  that  is 
being  made  in  ditching,  draining,  and  reclaiming  our 
swamp  and  overflow  lands,  as  well  as  lakes,  is 
greatly  reducing  the  area  of  the  hunting  grounds 
in  the  middle  section. 

"Our  so-called  spring  shooting — that  is,  from 
February  fifteenth  to  April  first — is  not  only  by  far 
the  best  shooting  but  in  a  great  majority  of  cases 
is  the  only  time  in  which  we  have  water  sufficient 
in  quantity  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  migratory 
birds,  this  water  coming  from  the  melting  of  the 
snow  and  the  overflows  following  the  winter 
freezes.  And  will  someone  please  explain  the  dif- 
ference in  killing  a  duck  in  Missouri  during  Febru- 
ary and  killing  one  in  Texas  or  Louisiana  during 
February  ? 

"The  ducks  and  geese  on  their  travels  northward 
in  the  spring  of  the  year,  coming  through  this  sec- 
tion during  February  and  March,  are  not  mating, 
and  travel  in  the  same  way  they  do  in  the  fall  of  the 

269 


year  going  south;  and  why  the  argument  that  they 
could  be  shot  in  the  fall  and  not  in  the  spring  in  this 
section  of  the  country  is  more  than  the  writer  can 
understand,  as  we  might  as  well  prohibit  the  shoot- 
ing on  the  Gulf  Coast  in  December,  January  and 
February  as  to  prohibit  it  in  this  section  during  Feb- 
ruary and  March. 

"Is  it  not  a  restriction  of  the  individual  rights 
and  liberties  of  a  resident  of  Missouri,  Iowa  or  Kan- 
sas, who  perchance  may  have  a  small  lake  or  pond 
on  his  premises,  when  a  flight  of  ducks  going  north 
in  February  or  March  drops  down  on  this  lake  or 
pond,  to  say  that  this  farmer  shall  not  have  the 
right  to  shoot  at  them?  When  they  get  up  and 
leave  they  are  gone  for  good,  and  if  he  cannot  shoot 
at  them  then  he  never  gets  the  chance;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  they  are  exposed  to  be  killed  by  the  Ca- 
nadian Indian  or  the  well-to-do  sportsman  who  can 
afford  to  visit  the  winter  feeding  grounds  of  such 
game  on  the  Gulf  Coast. 

"It  is  not,  therefore,  a  question  of  whether  some 
one  sportsman,  or  some  gun  club  or  private  game 
preserve,  shall  have  little  or  no  shooting  at  all,  but 
is  simply  a  question  of  whether  the  rich  man,  who 
can  afford  to  make  long  trips  in  quest  of  such  game, 
shall  have  practically  the  exclusive  privilege — be- 
cause, if  it  is  a  fact  that  the  average  hunter  in  the 

270 


GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 

middle  section  of  the  country  be  not  permitted  to 
shoot  geese  and  ducks  during  the  passage,  there  will 
be  more  at  the  summer  or  winter  quarters  of  these 
fowls  where  the  rich  and  lordly  sportsman  goes,  and 
it  would  thereby  make  more  game  for  him.  The 
foregoing  assertion  is  made  on  the  theory  that  the 
discontinuance  of  spring  shooting  in  this  section 
will  increase  the  supply. 

"The  Canadian  Government  furnishes  very  little 
and  in  some  sections  no  protection  of  the  wildfowl 
bred  and  raised  on  its  own  ground;  and  is  it  the 
duty  of  this  Government  to  protect  that  which  is 
raised  in  another  country?  Shall  our  citizenship 
of  the  middle  section  be  deprived  of  that  to  which 
they  are  as  much  entitled  as  the  citizenship  of  any 
section?  And  shall  we  be  responsible  for  the  care, 
keeping  and  protection  of  the  migratory  birds  for 
the  benefit  of  the  Gulf  sportsmen  and  the  residents 
of  Canada?" 

Information  is  much  more  appreciated  by  most 
folk  who  read  than  argument  or  assertion  or  harsh 
criticism.  It  is  usually  the  part  of  youth  to  be 
caustic  in  comment  on  the  opinions  of  others  which 
do  not  agree  with  our  own.  There  is  no  wish  herein 
to  be  harsh,  for  no  good  comes  of  that  sort  of  thing. 

At  the  same  time  there  is  no  need  to  be  otherwise 
271 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

than  candid  or  sane  in  looking  into  these  matters. 
It  is  plain  that  the  slightest  study  of  this  Western 
plea  for  special  privilege  will  disclose  its  logic  to 
have  absurd  premises  and  a  faulty  conclusion.  It  is 
just  plain,  everyday,  naive  selfishness,  nothing  more. 
It  wholly  forgets  that  all  laws  are  compromises,  but 
that  all  laws  are  made  to  protect  the  public  against 
individual  selfishness.  It  assumes  that  the  law 
should  protect  the  spring  shooter,  and  not  the  wild- 
fowl. Such  a  protest  is  not  even  high-class  non- 
sense— it  is  mere  puerile  babbling.  Just  that  much 
can  be  said  of  every  other  argument  for  special 
privilege.  Should  we  grant  equal  rights  of  exemp- 
tion to  every  other  locality  of  the  United  States 
affected  by  the  Federal  wildfowl  statute,  we  should 
have  no  law  at  all — and  no  game  at  all. 

The  trouble  with  all  special  privilege  is  that  it 
lands  us  precisely  in  the  middle  of  general  anarchy 
and  general  destruction,  of  general  emptiness  and 
want.  If  it  were  not  for  these  disconcerting  fea- 
tures special  privilege  would  be  an  excellent  thing, 
whether  in  Wall  Street,  in  the  United  States  Senate, 
or  on  a  ducking  marsh. 

Without  doubt  or  question,  the  sentiment  of  the 
American  people  is  turning  against  special  privi- 
lege. We  are  beginning  to  unscramble  the  eggs.  We 
are  revising  some  of  the  special  privilege  clauses  of 

272 


GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 

the  tariff;  restricting  some  of  the  special  privileges 
of  the  currency;  taking  other  steps  which  seem  to 
show  that  we  are  counting  over  what  we  have  left 
in  America.  We  must  come  to  the  same  frame  of 
mind  in  sport  that  we  have  attained — partially,  at 
least — in  commerce.  In  short,  if  we  are  to  have 
any  sport  in  America  we  have  got  to  handle  it  on 
a  strictly  business  basis. 

Most  of  this  protest  against  the  wildfowl  law 
arises  not  from  downtrodden  persons,  but  over  on- 
trodden  toes.  It  is  frank  and  selfish  jealousy  that 
animates  the  special  plea  for  the  Middle  West 
shooter.  It  is  perfectly  easy  to  see  that  in  abolish- 
ing spring  shooting  and  establishing  new  shooting 
zones  in  the  United  States,  someone's  toes  are  go- 
ing to  get  stepped  on.  It  is  equally  easy  to  see  that 
someone's  toes  should  have  been  stepped  on  long 
ago. 

Compromise  has  to  begin  somewhere.  We  can 
eat  our  cake,  or  keep  it,  or  we  can  partly  eat  it  and 
partly  keep  it ;  but  we  cannot  eat  it  all  and  have  any 
of  it  left.  There  are  many  men  in  this  country  to- 
day who  are  trying  to  get  the  question  of  American 
game  supply  handled  on  a  business  basis  and  not 
a  special  privilege  basis,  and  who  are  not  thinking 
of  their  own  personal  interests  in  the  least. 

More  convincing  than  mere  assertions  are  facts 
273 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

fresh  from  the  game  fields.  It  cannot  be  doubted 
that  the  series  of  such  facts  today  have  one  unmis- 
takable trend — and  that  is  the  recording  of  general 
scarcity  of  game.  A  writer  from  South  Dakota, 
who  has  been  accustomed  to  shooting  in  good  wild- 
fowl country,  says: 

"It  might  be  of  interest  to  state  that  there  was 
not  any  great  flight  of  Northern  birds  this  fall  and* 
a  scarcity  of  the  mallards  was  specially  noticeable. 
Though  the  lakes  and  ponds  have  all  been  open — 
except  in  one  light  freeze  about  October  twenty-sec- 
ond— until  this  writing,  and  though  the  weather  has 
been  extremely  mild,  with  no  snow,  the  late  mal- 
lards are  in  evidence  only  in  small  numbers.  With 
the  above  conditions  prevalent  a  few  years  ago,  our 
grainfields  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  small  lakes 
would  be  alive  with  big  northern  greenheads.  Have" 
they  changed  their  flight,  as  some  of  our  hunters 
contend,  or  are  there  less  bred  each  year?  I  am 
quite  anxious  to  see  what  effect  the  cutting  out  of 
spring  shooting  will  have  on  the  fall  flight.  It  is 
my  belief  that  little  if  any  change  will  be  apparent 
for  several  years;  and,  though  it  almost  breaks  my 
heart  to  think  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  hike  out 
next  spring  when  the  flight  from  the  South  begins, 
I  am  glad  to  sacrifice  this  pleasure  in  the  spring  in 

274 


GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 

order  to  help  save  our  wild  birds  from  seeming  ex- 
termination." 

Once  in  a  while  a  marked  uneasiness  becomes 
apparent  among  certain  protesters  against  our  Fed- 
eral wildfowl  law,  lest  we  should  be  doing  too 
much  for  Canada  and  Canada  not  enough  for  us, 
in  this  matter  of  migratory  fowl.  That  is  the  same 
dog-in-the-manger  attitude  which  for  a  long  time 
kept  Wisconsin  from  passing  a  spring-shooting 
law — because  Illinois  had  not  done  so.  Such  jeal- 
ous propositions  have  nothing  to  do  with  practical 
game  protection;  but,  so  far  as  that  is  concerned, 
Canada  is  fully  abreast  of  us  in  protecting  wild- 
fowl. A  communication  from  an  official  of  a  pro- 
tective association  at  Regina,  Saskatchewan,  says: 

"I  agree  that  more  ducks  breed  in  the  southern 
part  of  Saskatchewan  than  in  the  northern.  John- 
ston Lake,  forty  miles  south  of  our  lower  railroad 
line,  is  one  of  the  best  breeding  grounds  I  have  seen 
in  Saskatchewan.  A  small  island  there  has  been 
made  a  game  preserve.  Saskatchewan  abolished 
spring  shooting  three  years  ago,  and  Manitoba  and 
Alberta  have  since  fallen  into  line.  British  Colum- 
bia still  allows  spring  shooting,  but  we  hope  to  see 
that  province  fall  into  line  with  the  other  states  and 
provinces.  .  .  .  We  have  this  year  put  a  bag  limit 

275 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

of  two  hundred  and  fifty — inclusive — on  ducks, 
geese  and  swans,  which  practically  eliminates  the 
market  hunter." 

Canada  more  rigidly  enforces  her  game  laws  than 
we  do  in  the  United  States.  She  still  has  more 
game  than  we  have,  being  younger ;  hence  her  laws 
might  be  more  liberal  than  ours.  It  is  time  for  all 
Canada,  however,  to  prohibit  not  only  all  spring 
shooting  but  all  market  shooting  all  the  time.  So 
far  from  the  limit  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  birds 
wiping  out  the  market  hunter,  the  writer  has  at  hand 
advices  from  an  American  sportsman  who  shot  in 
Saskatchewan  last  fall  and  who  there  knew  one 
market  shooter  who  had  marketed  twenty-five  hun- 
dred wild  ducks  that  season.  There  are  just  a  few 
of  us  who  do  not  identify  the  market  hunter  with 
civilization  in  its  highest  sense. 

From  a  city  in  Alberta  there  comes  word  from 
a  sportsman  who  has  given  some  study  to  the  ques- 
tion of  game  supply;  and  his  report,  on  the  whole, 
seems  optimistic  and  broad  gauged : 

"The  wildfowl  of  this  continent  are  going — and 
going  fast.  I  have  done  considerable  shooting  in 
Western  Canada,  from  Winnipeg  to  the  mountains 
and  from  the  international  boundary  to  fifty-five 

276 


GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 

north  latitude,  for  the  past  twenty-two  years,  and 
can  assure  you  that  not  one  bird  exists  today  among 
the  migratory  families  where  ten  came  and  went 
two  decades  ago. 

"There  are  many  reasons  for  this  apart  from  the 
winter  and  spring  shooting.  The  nesting  grounds 
have  been  settled,  and  lakes  where  wild  celery  was 
prolific  a  few  years  ago  are  barren  of  it  now — 
simply  pastured  to  death,  I  presume,  owing  to  the 
curtailment  of  the  feeding  grounds.  The  recurrent 
disappearance  of  the  rabbits  forces  the  coyotes  to 
hunt  other  food,  and  duck  eggs  are  very  much  to 
their  liking.  Then  numerous  small  sloughs,  for- 
merly having — every  one — their  three  or  four 
broods  of  ducks,  have  disappeared  before  the  plow. 
Out-of -season  shooting  has  made  the  more  wary 
wild  ducks  avoid  entirely  great  stretches  of  country. 

"I  can  assure  you  that  the  game  laws  are  pretty 
well  observed  throughout  Western  Canada.  Our 
open  season  for  ducks  is  pretty  short  and  after  this 
year  is  likely  to  be  two  or  three  weeks  shorter,  not 
opening  possibly  until  September  fifteenth.  This 
will  make  it  very  little  over  a  month,  when  you  con- 
sider that  our  sloughs  ice  over  usually  in  the  latter 
half  of  October  and  the  ducks  move  south. 

"This  year,  in  my  immediate  home  neighbor- 
hood, ducks  were  so  plentiful  through  September 

277 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

and  early  October  that  they  were  a  curse  to  the 
farmer.  They  "fed  on  the  fields  in  hordes,  and  I 
can  mention  farmers  who  lost  as  high  as  a  third  of 
their  grain  in  the  stock.  I  know  of  a  field  or  two 
that  were  worthless  and  were  never  even  threshed ; 
but  this  condition  was  quite  local.  The  trips  I  made 
a  hundred  miles  east,  and  even  less  south  and  west, 
showed  an  absolute  scarcity  of  wildfowl.  The 
ducks  come  where  feed  is  abundant  and  convenient 
to  open  water.  Still,  it  sounds  strange  to  hear  in 
1913  of  a  farmer  having  to  hire  a  man  to  patrol 
his  grain  fields  in  the  evening  and  morning  to  pro- 
tect them  from  wild  ducks. 

"Our  grouse — miscalled  prairie  chickens — and 
partridges  are  very  much  on  the  increase,  owing 
partly  to  the  absolute  protection  afforded  them  by 
the  Province  of  Alberta  for  some  years;  they  are 
getting  so  numerous,  in  fact,  that  the  open  season 
was  extended  a  month  this  year  on  grouse.  They 
were  doing  damage  to  cut  grain — not  to  mention 
the  quantity  of  seed  they  scratch  out  of  the  ground 
in  the  seeding  season.  Being  non-migratory,  of 
course  it  is  up  to  us  to  retain  them  or  exterminate 
them;  but,  if  the  general  attitude  of  our  people 
toward  the  close  season  placed  on  them  a  few  years 
ago  is  to  be  taken  as  a  criterion  of  our  wish  to 
conserve  the  species,  it  will  be  a  long  time  before 

278 


GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 

the  broadminded  sportsman  will  not  get  his  legal 
bag  of  ten  birds  in  a  day's  shooting.  I  have  counted 
as  high  as  seven  hundred  grouse  flushed  out  of  a 
single  grain  field  this  fall,  and  we  see  them  every- 
where while  motoring  along  the  country  roads. 

"Your  timely  article  on  wildfowl  has  brought  me 
to  write  this  letter.  I  hope  that  judicious  treat- 
ment of  the  subject  by  the  authorities  on  both  sides 
of  the  line  will  make  it  possible  for  an  honest,  de- 
cent shooter  to  get  a  reasonable  bag  for  his  day's 
hunt  for  generations  to  come." 

Too  many  times  sportsmen  have  reasoned  from  a 
particular  premise  to  a  general  conclusion.  The 
fact  that  ducks  have  to  be  herded  off  the  fields  in 
one  locality  in  Alberta  does  not  mean  that  American 
gunners  ought  to  shoot  in  the  spring  in  any  of  our 
Western  states.  The  fact  that  some  localities  are 
specially  favored  with  game  does  not  mean  that 
men  of  those  localities  should  kill  it  without  restric- 
tion; nor  does  it  mean  that  men  of  less  favored 
localities  should  use  to  the  limit  their  own  lessening 
opportunities.  That  a  few  men  shoot  ducks  on 
the  Gulf  Coast  in  December  and  January  does  not 
by  any  means  signify  that  all  men  should  shoot 
ducks  in  March  and  April  in  the  entire  Mississippi 
Valley. 

279 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

What  these  facts  do  mean,  if  we  apply  to  them 
the  tests  of  logic  or  plain  North  American  horse 
sense,  is  that  the  day  of  special  privilege  is  due  to 
pass  on  this  continent,  and  is  now  passing ;  and  that 
it  must  be  entirely  past  before  the  laws  of  democracy 
and  decent  fair  play  can  be  put  in  force.  We  must 
give  a  little  in  one  place  and  take  a  little  in  another. 

No  game  law  ever  was  popular;  but  wide  and 
logical  game  laws  must  be  put  in  force  all  over 
this  continent  if  we  are  to  have  any  supply  of  game 
left.  Some  toes  will  be  trodden  on  without  doubt 
or  question.  It  is  best  just  to  look  pleasant  in  that 
case.  We  all  of  us  have  to  take  our  medicine  some- 
times. Unless  our  Constitution  is  unconstitutional, 
our  scheme  of  government — here  in  the  United 
States,  at  least — has  in  view  the  greatest  good  to 
the  greatest  number. 

We  must  begin  to  look  at  the  supply  of  game  not 
from  a  purely  local  and  selfish  standpoint,  but  from 
an  economic,  educational,  and  industrial  standpoint. 
We  must  apply  business  principles  to  our  sport. 
We  have  got  to  look  on  our  game  crop  as  one  to 
be  harvested  under  certain  wise  restrictions — just 
as  the  farmer  harvests  his  poultry. 

So  far  as  open  shooting  for  the  average  Ameri- 
can is  concerned,  that  means,  without  doubt  or  ques- 
tion, that  we  must  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  thought 

280 


GAME  LAWS  AND  GAME  SUPPLY 

of  shorter  shooting  seasons,  of  smaller  daily  bags, 
of  no  spring  shooting  and  no  market  shooting. 

We  soon  shall  see  the  time,  let  us  hope,  when 
there  will  be  no  market  shooting  and  no  spring 
shooting  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  to  Athabasca 
Lake.  That  will  mean  that  more  people  will  eat 
more  wild  fowl  in  more  places  than  they  do  today. 
That  is  business!  The  curtailment  of  the  personal 
enjoyment  of  a  few  of  us  is  something  that  does 
not  really  come  into  the  question  one  way  or  the 
other. 

Special  privilege  would  be  an  excellent  thing  if 
we  all  could  have  it — but  we  can  not.  You  can  not 
buy  geese  for  sixty  cents  a  dozen  today. 


XIII 
A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 


XIII 
A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 

IT  is  not  given  to  all  of  us  to  visit  foreign  lands, 
or  to  know  the  wilderness  regions  of  all  the 
world,  but  sometimes  quite  a  voyage  around 
the  world  may  be  taken  within  the  confines  of  an 
average  sportsman's  den.  Outdoor  men  are  natural 
collectors,  and  nearly  every  hunter  of  your  acquain- 
tance will  have  a  lot  of  mounted  heads  and  rugs,  an 
assortment  of  all  kinds  of  rifles  and  guns,  and 
countless  curious  knickknacks  which  he  has  accu- 
mulated from  year  to  year  in  uncivilized  portions 
of  the  globe.  Your  real  sportsman  is  nothing  if 
not  impractical.  Ask  him  why  he  picks  up  this 
worthless  plunder,  and  probably  he  could  not  tell 
you.  The  things  just  naturally  seem  to  stick  to 
him. 

In  any  one  of  a  dozen  lodges,  dens,  or  junk  rooms 
— whatever  you  choose  to  call  this  sanctum  sanc- 
torum of  the  outdoor  crank — you  may  perhaps, 
when  you  come  to  investigate,  run  across  a  liberal 
education  in  some  phases  of  outdoor  life,  so  that 

285 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

perhaps  the  voyage  around  the  room  may  in  effect 
be  a  voyage  around  the  world. 

There  is  some  connection  between  a  love  of  the 
outdoor  air  and  a  love  for  the  early  history  of  this 
country.  You  will  find  a  great  many  well-to-do 
sportsmen  who  have  fine  libraries  on  early  Ameri- 
cans— and  very  likely  fine  libraries  of  natural  his- 
tory as  well.  There  is  an  enormous  literature  of 
the  outdoors,  covering  a  wide  and  interesting  world 
quite  unknown  to  those  not  embraced  in  the  great 
guild  of  the  lovers  of  the  open.  Many  and  many 
an  old  volume,  rare  and  valuable,  we  shall  find  thus 
tucked  away,  its  owner  ashamed  to  admit  his  weak- 
ness for  early  exploration  and  adventure,  or  even 
for  the  early  history  of  his  own  country.  So  many 
men  pooh-pooh  that  sort  of  thing  that  the  culprits 
feel  always  on  the  defensive.  Perhaps  also  they 
will  not  care  to  show  you  their  own  collections  of 
pictures,  taken  here  and  there  all  over  the  world, 
things  certain  to  be  of  value  at  a  later  day,  but 
classed  as  junk  by  contemptuous  contemporaries, 
who  do  not  understand. 

In  an  earlier  day  in  our  country,  a  gentleman  was 
supposed  to  know  how  to  ride,  shoot,  and  tell  the 
truth.  His  familiarity  with  weapons  was  a  matter 
of  course.  Other  times,  other  customs!  It  is  not 
so  necessary  today  for  a  gentleman  to  know  about 

286 


A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 

such  things,  but  though  not  necessary,  nevertheless 
it  may  be  quite  as  desirable. 

When  it  comes  to  firearms  today,  you  shall  see 
many  a  man,  owner  of  more  sorts  and  conditions  of 
firearms  than  his  grandfather  would  have  dreamed 
of  having  about  him.  It  is  a  day  of  science  and 
progress  in  weapons.  We  care  little  for  the  means 
of  increasing  and  preserving  the  wild  life  of  our 
country,  but  as  to  things  for  killing  off  the  game,  we 
are  equipped  as  no  other  people  in  the  world  ever 
have  been. 

Among  the  rifles  in  your  own  den  you  have,  no 
doubt,  the  latest  high-power  arms.  If  you  were 
obliged  to  go  out  grizzly  hunting  with  no  better 
tools  than  those  carried  by  Lewis  and  Clark,  you 
probably  would  not  go  at  all.  Your  own  battery 
probably  includes  the  heaviest  repeating  arms,  and 
also  the  most  modern  high-power  small  bores. 

In  the  old  days  neither  white  man  nor  red  would 
have  dreamed  of  owning  such  rifles  as  we  have 
today.  Here,  for  instance,  is  that  quaint  volume 
of  tremendous  lies  written  by  old  Jim  Beckwourth, 
who  lived  among  the  Crow  Indians  in  the  early 
part  of  the  last  century.  Beckwourth  got  so  he 
could  use  a  bow  and  arrow  as  well  as  an  Indian. 
Here  are  a  pair  of  old  buffalo  arrows  hanging  on 
the  wall.  The  owner  got  them  from  old  Plenty 

287 


Coup,  chief  of  the  Crows.  Plenty  Coup  said  both 
of  these  arrows  had  killed  buffalo  in  their  time.  I 
wonder  if  either  of  them  ever  was  shot  from  a  bow 
such  as  Beckwourth  describes — that  most  prized  one 
made  from  the  horns  of  the  mountain  sheep. 

Bows  from  the  old  plains,  wrapped  in  sinew, 
made  of  elkhorn  or  of  bois  d'arc  (the  osage  orange 
wood)  are  not  uncommon  even  yet  in  sportsmen's 
dens,  although  they  and  the  old  war  shields  now 
have  become  museum  pieces.  How  would  you  like 
to  have  to  make  a  living  with  this  bow  from  the 
Crows,  or  this  other  from  the  Piutes,  and  these 
arrows  with  heads  peradventure  filed  out  of  hoop 
iron?  Hardly  as  good  as  the  modern  Springfield, 
one  would  say.  Yet  with  tools  no  better  than  these, 
Indians  killed  practically  all  kinds  of  American 
great  game — even,  sometimes,  the  grizzly  bear. 

There  is  something  odd  about  the  Indian  bow, 
whether  from  the  most  northerly  or  southerly  parts 
of  the  buffalo  range.  All  the  tribes  made  the  bow 
with  one  side  flatter  than  the  other  when  the  bow 
was  strung.  Why  this  form  of  the  bow  began  and 
persisted  I  have  never  been  able  to  figure  out,  but 
from  Blackfoot  to  Digger  you  will  see  lack  of 
symmetry  in  the  two  sides  of  the  strung  bow. 

The  savage  hunter  could  not  concern  himself 
much  over  the  trajectory  of  his  projectiles,  but 

288 


A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 

had  to  do  just  the  best  he  could  with  the  means  at 
hand.  One  of  his  devices  for  increasing  the  range 
of  his  spear  was  the  throwing  stick,  a  contri- 
vance which  has  been  found  in  Australia,  North 
America,  and  other  parts  of  the  world  among  sav- 
age peoples.  Here  is  one  form  of  this  contrivance 
which  the  Aleut  hunter  who  owned  it  called  a 
"nogock."  It  is  a  flattened  stick  a  couple  of  feet 
long,  grooved  to  give  a  good  hold  in  the  fingers, 
and  fitted  with  a  tip  of  ivory  against  which  the  bot- 
tom of  the  dart  or  harpoon  rested.  By  this  device 
he  could  lengthen  his  arm  and  cast  his  dart  with 
tremendous  velocity. 

Here  is  something  still  rarer  than  the  Aleut's  no- 
gock— that  is  to  say,  the  harpoon  or  giant  arrow 
which  he  used  with  the  nogock.  This  weapon  is 
about  four  feet  long,  is  feathered  like  an  Indian 
arrow,  and  has  a  long  head,  not  of  steel,  but  of 
slate.  With  no  better  tools,  and  with  no  better  boat 
than  the  tipsy  bidarka  of  seal  hide,  out  of  which 
you  or  I  would  fall  as  fast  as  we  could  climb  in, 
the  Aleut  hunter  went  to  sea  after  whales;  and, 
moreover,  he  got  whales. 

Sneaking  up  on  one  of  these  great  creatures 
when  he  found  it  on  the  surface,  your  Aleut  would 
drive  his  slate-headed  little  harpoon  deep  into  its 
body.  He  knew  very  well  that  if  the  stone  head 

289 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

penetrated  the  blubber  and  struck  into  the  red  meat 
of  the  whale,  death  would  certainly  ensue  eventually. 
So,  having  delivered  his  shaft,  he  paddled  back 
home  and  waited  until  the  dead  whale  came  ashore 
somewhere  and  some  time.  It  would  puzzle  us  to 
duplicate  his  feat  with  the  best  of  our  modern  rifles. 

A  rather  curious  interest  attaches  to  the  knives 
of  savage  peoples.  Many  sportsmen  have  collected 
sets  of  the  Philippine  weapons,  from  barong  and 
bolo  to  kris  and  dagger.  The  coarse  gray  steel 
of  these  great  knives  will  take  quite  a  good  edge. 
The  nearest  approach  we  have  to  these  heavy  blades 
is  the  old  Hudson  Bay  knife,  with  its  wide,  heavy 
blade  and  stout  handle,  a  weapon  and  tool  com- 
bined, which  would  weigh  two  or  three  pounds. 

Perhaps  you  have  read  that  the  Chinese  will  saw 
or  whittle  toward  himself  and  not  away  from  him- 
self while  working  wood.  Some  of  the  tribes  of 
the  extreme  northern  parts  of  this  continent  are 
curiously  Oriental  in  their  looks  and  in  their  habits. 
All  over  the  North  you  will  find  what  is  known  as 
the  "crooked  knife,"  a  tool  usually  made  of  an  old 
file,  with  the  end  curved  up,  not  used  for  cutting 
or  stabbing.  This  knife  was  always  drawn  toward 
the  user  while  whittling,  and  like  all  the  Indian 
knives,  was  sharpened  only  on  one  side,  and  not 
with  a  double  bevel. 

290 


A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 

Among  the  Eskimos  you  will  find  a  still  more 
curious  knife  used  in  a  still  more  curious  way.  The 
Eskimo  has  very  little  metal,  and  with  him  an  old 
saw  blade  is  a  treasure.  He  also  whittles  toward 
himself,  but  the  handle  of  his  knife  is  so  long  that 
it  rests  in  the  hollow  of  his  elbow  when  he  works, 
thus  getting  a  very  rigid  purchase.  The  blade  is 
only  two  or  three  inches  long,  pointed  and  bent  up, 
and  sharpened  on  one  side.  With  no  better  tool  the 
Eskimo  can  fashion  all  sorts  of  things. 

The  Eskimo  makes  other  knives  out  of  chance 
bits  of  metal.  These  curious  little  blades,  looking 
like  hash  knives,  are  really  his  hide  scrapers,  for  he 
will  always  use  steel  rather  than  stone  when  he  can 
get  it.  This  semi-circular  blade  resembles  a  har- 
ness-maker's knife.  The  handle  is  of  bone.  It  is 
not  riveted,  but  you  could  hardly  get  it  off  if  you 
tried.  In  some  way  he  slits  the  bone,  inserts  the 
blade,  and  shrinks  it  on  firmly. 

With  the  rudest  of  tools  some  Eskimo  has  made 
this  curious  pipe  out  of  bits  of  steel  and  pieces  of 
copper  cartridges.  The  bowl  is  very  small,  like  the 
old  stone  pipe  bowls.  How  the  metal  is  inlaid  so 
firmly  and  beautifully,  in  alternate  bands  of  steel 
and  copper,  only  the  savage  workman  himself  could 
explain.  But  perhaps  still  more  difficult  was  the 
fashioning  of  this  blue-stone  pipe  bowl,  which  the 

291 


Eskimo  had  to  drill  through  with  the  clumsiest  of 
drills.  Today  the  Eskimos  make  these  drills  with 
pieces  of  steel  or  tempered  nails.  They  let  a  piece 
of  copper  cartridge  into  the  upper  part  of  the  drill, 
which  they  hold  between  their  teeth  while  working, 
and  they  operate  the  drill  shaft  with  the  ancient 
bow  and  thong  which  was  discovered  at  no  man 
knows  what  ancient  day  of  the  world. 

As  for  you  and  me,  if  we  want  a  weapon  we  can 
go  down  to  the  store  and  buy  it.  If  we  want  a 
whole  kit  of  tools  we  can  buy  them.  If  we  want  a 
knife  we  can  choose  from  dozens  of  patterns.  If 
we  want  ivory  ornaments,  we  can  buy  them  ready 
made,  done  by  Chinese  or  Japanese  or  Siamese,  and 
we  do  not  have  to  decorate  them  as  the  Eskimo 
does,  with  the  three-cornered  point  of  a  hardened 
nail  let  into  a  piece  of  ivory  for  a  handle. 

If  we  want  to  go  fishing,  we  can  go  down  town 
and  get  the  most  wonderful  variety  of  fishing  gear, 
ranging  from  cheap  Cincinnati  bass  hooks  to  the 
splendid  salmon  flies  which  cost  a  couple  of  dollars 
apiece.  We  would  call  it  something  of  a  hardship 
to  go  out  and  get  fish  enough  for  breakfast  if  we 
had  no  better  fishhook  than  this  one  made  by  some 
Eskimo  on  the  Arctic  sea.  It  is,  indeed,  a  curious 
lure,  about  three  inches  long,  made  of  a  piece  of 
ivory  backed  with  a  piece  of  black  whalebone,  and 

292 


A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 

cut  roughly  into  the  shape  of  a  minnow.  The  hook 
is  simply  a  barbless  piece  of  bent  wire,  fastened  to 
one  end  and  roughly  curved.  The  savage  maker  has 
put  two  or  three  spots  of  metal  on  his  lure,  and 
has  even  reeved  through  it  two  pieces  of  red  wor- 
sted, cut  off  on  each  side  close  to  the  surface.  It  is 
a  far  more  sportsmanlike  proposition  than  our 
wooden  minnows  with  a  dozen  hooks  in  gangs  hung 
all  over  them. 

While  fishing  for  the  inconnu,  or  other  fish  of 
his  country,  Mr.  Eskimo  stands  on  the  edge  of  the 
ice  with  a  short  stiff  pole  made,  perhaps,  of  a  piece 
of  ivory  or  a  seal  rib,  a  foot  or  so  in  length.  His 
line  he  has  made  of  sinews  or  the  like.  He  stands 
and  bobs  his  curious  bait  up  and  down,  and  when 
he  has  a  bite  he  snatches  out  his  fish  forthwith. 
Sometimes  his  fish  will  weigh  ten  to  twenty  or  thirty 
pounds.  His  lure,  which  looks  so  simple  to  us,  is 
practical  in  his  hands.  So  is  his  ivory-tipped  har- 
poon for  hunting  seal,  and  so  is  his  shotgun  for 
hunting  wild  ducks. 

The  latter  is  simply  a  half-dozen  thongs  tied  to- 
gether at  one  end,  having  ivory  balls  at  the  other. 
Whirling  this  over  his  head,  he  casts  it  revolving 
into  a  flock  of  flying  birds,  and  in  his  hands  it  will 
bring  home  the  bacon.  This  contrivance  is  some- 
thing like  the  bolas  used  by  the  South  American 

293 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

natives  in  their  hunting.  It  is  very  curious  to  note 
how  some  of  these  aboriginal  devices  reappear  in 
the  most  widely  separated  corners  of  the  world. 

I  don't  see  why  our  enterprising  sporting  goods 
dealers  do  not  offer  hunters  something  in  the  way 
of  a  waterproof  rifle  case,  not  a  leather  carrying 
cover  but  something  to  protect  the  gun  while  actu- 
ally hunting.  Daniel  Boone  had  a  cover  for  his  rifle, 
and  so  did  Kit  Carson,  and  so  does  the  North  Amer- 
ican Indian  from  Dakota  to  the  Arctic  Ocean.  These 
gun  covers,  usually  made  of  moose  leather  and 
highly  ornamented,  are  very  fine  examples  of  savage 
handiwork  sometimes.  They  are  not  waterproof, 
however.  Among  the  Aleutian  Islands  I  have  seen 
rifle  covers  made  of  canvas  and  painted  in  order  to 
waterproof  them,  as  that  is  a  very  wet  country  for 
hunting.  The  white  man  seems  to  have  gotten  out 
of  the  habit  of  carrying  his  rifle  in  a  case  while 
hunting,  and  contents  himself  with  collecting  savage 
rifle  covers  for  use  only  in  his  den — very  beautiful 
specimens  they  are,  too,  some  of  them. 

It  is  a  matter  of  wonder  how  these  savages,  liv- 
ing as  rudely  as  they  do,  can  turn  out  articles  so 
beautifully  decorated.  I  have  seen  Indian  and  Es- 
kimo women  sitting  on  the  ground  in  the  rawest 
kind  of  a  cold  wind,  scarcely  sheltered  at  all  by 
the  ragged  tent  or  tepee,  turning  out  the  most  beau- 

294 


A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 

tiful  things  in  silk  work  or  bead  work — gun  covers, 
moccasins,  baby  bands  or  baby  bags,  museum  pieces 
in  every  sense  of  the  word  and  beautiful  examples 
of  savage  handicraft.  Once  in  a  while,  nowadays, 
these  poor  people  get  a  little  hand  sewing  machine, 
more  is  the  pity,  but  for  the  most  part  their  belong- 
ings are  of  the  scantiest  and  most  meager.  The 
interior  of  an  Indian  tent  is  a  jumble  of  articles  of 
all  sorts,  but  nearly  always,  underneath  the  bed,  or 
in  some  bag,  hidden  under  a  pile  of  meat  or  hides, 
you  will  find  some  sort  of  pouch  or  contrivance  in 
which  every  savage  woman  keeps  her  working  tools 
and  her  treasures,  skeins  of  silk  or  the  pitiful  strings 
of  beads  for  which  they  pay  so  high  a  price. 

The  Indian  trunk  was  the  rawhide  parfleche,  a 
folded  case  in  which  to  carry  meat  or  almost  any- 
thing else.  I  have  never  seen  one  of  these  cases 
in  the  moose  country  of  the  North,  but  usually  the 
women  up  there  will  have  some  sort  of  box  or  tin, 
or  a  buckskin  bag,  in  which  they  keep  their  odds 
and  ends.  From  such  a  receptacle  came  this  curious 
object,  the  use  of  which  you  might  guess  many 
times  before  you  had  it  right.  It  is  a  roughly  orna- 
mented cylinder  of  metal,  a  quarter  of  an  inch  in 
diameter.  Through  it  there  plays  loosely  a  buckskin 
thong  which  has  a  copper  ball  on  one  end  and  some 
beads  and  seal  teeth  at  the  other  for  ornament. 

295 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

This  is  the  Eskimo  lady's  needle  book,  and  she  could 
not  devise  a  better  for  her  manner  of  life.  She 
prizes  her  needles  very  much,  indeed,  and  cannot 
afford  to  lose  one.  She  sticks  them  into  the  soft 
buckskin  thong  lengthwise,  slips  the  metal  cylinder 
over  them,  and  tucks  the  thong  under  her  belt.  So 
there  she  is,  with  her  needles  perfectly  safe  and 
where  she  can  always  get  at  them!  Attached  to 
the  same  cylinder  you  may  perhaps  find  a  thong 
carrying  her  three-cornered  steel,  made  from  an  old 
file,  which  she  uses  to  put  an  edge  on  her  knife. 

The  Eskimos  of  the  far  North  make  waterproof 
coats  out  of  the  intestines  of  bears,  or  other  large 
animals.  The  Aleut  calls  such  a  coat  a  "kamelinka." 
It  turns  rain  perfectly.  A  coat  of  this  kind  packs 
into  a  small  space.  No  white  man  can  understand 
how  few  and  meager  are  the  personal  belongings 
of  these  tribes  who  have  to  win  their  living  from 
hostile  Nature.  They  cannot  carry  much  with 
them  even  if  they  had  it  to  carry.  For  instance,  you 
will  not  find  many  dishpans  in  an  Eskimo  village. 
Mother  Eskimo  takes  a  stone  and  pounds  a  hole 
in  the  ground  and  pours  it  full  of  water.  This 
makes  a  very  excellent  dishpan,  although  the  water 
is  not  changed  very  often. 

Savage  footwear  is  always  an  interesting  study. 
No  doubt  in  your  youthful  reading  you  learned  that 

296 


A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 

the  old  trapper  could  look  at  a  moccasin  and  tell 
to  what  tribe  it  belonged.  Indeed,  within  certain 
limitations,  you  can  do  that  yourself  today.  The 
white  man's  influence  has  changed  moccasin  decora- 
tion in  every  tribe  on  this  continent,  so  that  it  is 
very  difficult  now  to  get  the  really  primitive  beaded 
moccasin.  These  never  had  flowers  or  vines  in  the 
patterns,  but  always  certain  rude  geometrical  pat- 
terns, each  of  which  had  a  certain  symbolism  to  the 
savage  mind.  Scientists  sometimes  take  delight  in 
trying  to  read  meanings  into  these  old  moccasins. 

If  you  find  a  moccasin  cut  on  a  Waukenphast 
model,  and  with  a  hard,  rawhide  sole,  you  can  de- 
pend on  it  that  it  was  made  by  a  teepee  tribe  of  meat- 
eating  Indians.  All  the  plains  tribes  in  the  buffalo 
days  wore  hard-soled  moccasins.  They  make  them 
out  of  beef  hide  even  yet,  among  the  Crows,  Chey- 
ennes  and  Black  feet.  On  the  contrary,  as  you  go 
north  into  the  woods  country  where  snow  falls  deep, 
you  find  the  moccasins  made  pointed,  usually  with 
the  seam  straight  down  the  upper,  and  with  the  sole 
of  the  same  material  as  the  uppers  and  flaps.  You 
will  be  able  to  tell  one  woods  tribe  from  another  by 
the  cut  of  the  ankle  flaps.  The  footwear  of  the 
snowshoe  peoples  was  entirely  different  from  that 
of  the  horse  Indians. 

The  Northern  tribes  who  live  in  the  land  of  long 
297 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

night,  dress  gayly,  use  bright  colors.  There  is  a 
reason  for  this.  White  travelers  say  that  in  the 
monotony  of  nature,  all  white  and  black,  the  eye 
craves  color,  that  it  is  a  relief  amounting  almost  to 
a  safeguard  against  insanity.  Hence  the  Indian 
woman  spent  much  time  in  embroidering  and  bead- 
ing moccasins,  leggings,  garters,  gun  covers,  and 
the  like.  Sometimes  she  made  beautiful  fire  bags, 
for  ceremonial  wear,  in  which  the  braves  carried 
their  pipes  and  tobacco — examples  for  which  mu- 
seums sometimes  pay  good  prices  today.  I  have 
one  made  by  a  Mandan  woman,  who  was  eighty 
years  old  when  she  did  it,  and  almost  the  last  one 
of  her  tribe.  She  was  living  then  among  the  Black- 
feet.  Now,  when  you  look  at  this  little  pouch  of 
porcupine  quills  and  beads,  you  ought  not  to  toss  it 
down  idly  or  in  contempt.  It  is  a  great  thing.  It 
takes  you  back  into  the  history  of  this  country  in 
the  time  of  the  old  fur  trade  along  the  Missouri — < 
indeed,  into  the  days  of  Lewis  and  Clark,  the  hero 
times  of  exploration  and  adventure  of  which  we 
like  to  read.  Your  sportsman's  den  may  perhaps 
be  a  school  and  a  library,  as  well  as  a  receptacle  for 
junk. 

Sometimes  one's  sporting  equipment  will  gain  his- 
toric value  even  during  one's  own  lifetime.  For 
instance,  here  are  two  examples  of  the  ancient  Ken- 

298 


A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 

tucky  casting  reels,  each  beautiful  and  delicate  as 
a  watch.  There  are  all  sorts  of  casting  reels  on  sale 
today,  from  five  dollars  up.  You  paid  twenty  dol- 
lars for  your  old  Kentucky  reel  and  thought  it  too 
much,  but  it  is  worth  fifty  today.  In  the  same  way 
some  of  your  old-fashioned  rifles  will  run  into 
value,  and  perhaps  also  your  fishing  rods  as  well. 
Today  many  of  the  articles  of  savage  use,  such  as 
the  old  war  shields,  war  shirts,  buffalo  bows,  primi- 
tive examples  of  bead  work,  etc.,  are  worth  a  great 
deal  of  money.  We  have  factories  for  making 
antique  furniture,  and  there  are  factories  which 
make  Indian  articles  for  sale  at  summer  and  winter 
resorts — frightful  stuff  it  is,  which  ought  to  be 
barred  by  law — but  of  the  ancient  sporting  gear  of 
the  native  tribes  the  supply  now  is  very  limited. 
There  are  but  few  of  the  old  Indian  dresses,  made 
of  white  sheep  leather,  and  ornamented  each  with 
two  or  three  hundred  elk  teeth.  There  is  a  legend 
that  among  the  Blackfeet  a  vandal  once  dug  up 
some  of  the  buried  belles  of  early  days  for  the  sake 
of  the  elk  teeth  which  still  remained  on  their  for- 
gotten finery.  He  did  quite  a  business  in  elk  teeth 
in  this  way. 

Here,  under  glass  and  well  cared  for,  is  an  article 
the  use  of  which  must  be  explained.  It  is  a  saddle 
from  the  Pawnees,  almost  a  hundred  years  old, 

299 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

decorated  with  red  flannel,  now  almost  vanished 
through  ravages  of  moth  and  natural  decay,  and 
ornamented  with  beads  such  as  you  cannot  buy 
today.  The  deer  hair  in  the  pads  is  dust  today,  and 
the  buffalo  hide  cinch  is  hard  as  steel.  You  will  not 
find  any  such  saddles  today,  for  the  Indians  now 
buy  cow  saddles  as  good  as  you  yourself  own. 

On  yonder  heavily  studded  belt — like  the  one  on 
which  sometimes  you  carry  your  hunting  knife  and 
ax  when  you  are  after  big  game — there  is  a  little 
packet  of  hide  neatly  folded  and  tied  together. 
What  is  it,  and  why  is  it  there  on  the  hunting  belt? 
It  has  always  been  there,  and  often  I  have  been 
asked  by  the  curious  what  it  was.  Once,  I  think,  it 
was  opened  on  the  sly  by  a  curious  white  man.  That 
was  sacrilege — an  act  wholly  wrong.  It  was 
promptly  punished  also ;  for,  although  the  fault  was 
not  my  own,  I  had  hard  hunting  to  get  my  moose, 
and  when  I  did,  he  had  no  horns !  Why  was  that  ? 
Obviously,  because  someone  had  been  monkeying 
with  my  "medicine."  The  aboriginal  gods  took 
their  revenge. 

The  medicine  bag  was  something  sacred  in  the 
Indian's  lodge.  To  touch  it,  or  to  attempt  to 
unwrap  the  medicine  bundle,  was  an  insult  to  him 
and  his  religion.  It  was  a  sacred  thing.  Each  man 
had  his  own  medicine,  and  what  it  was  was  his 

300 


A  VOYAGE  AROUND  THE  ROOM 

business  and  no  one's  else.  So  what  there  is  in 
my  own  little  medicine  bundle,  without  which  I 
would  not  think  of  going  on  a  big-game  hunt,  is 
my  own  secret.  All  I  know  is  that  it  usually  brings 
home  the  bacon,  and  that  without  it  I  am  lacking 
in  confidence  of  success.  This  is  not  to  be  called 
superstition.  You  ought  not  to  call  any  man's  re- 
ligion a  superstition;  nor  ought  you  to  make  too 
light  of  the  things  he  calls  his  own  and  which  he 
has  found  good. 

For  that  matter,  you  ought  not  to  jest  or  sneer 
at  any  of  this  plunder  which  you  find  stored  away 
sacredly,  and  sometimes  secretly,  by  scores  and 
hundreds  of  sportsmen  who  in  public  are  successful 
citizens  and  men  of  substance,  but  who  in  private 
are  no  more  than  pirates,  no  more  than  savages,  no 
more  than  boys. 


XIV, 
WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING? 


XIV 
WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING? 

II  ME  was  when  any  well-ordered  country 
journal — yea,  even  any  self-respecting 
metropolitan  sheet — felt  it  obligatory  now 
and  then  to  demand  of  its  readers,  in  piercing  edi- 
torial tones,  "Whither  are  we  drifting?"  No  doubt 
a  great  many  of  our  journals  have  discovered  divers 
and  sundry  directions  in  which  we  are  drifting, 
although  it  is  not  of  record  that  the  drifting  has 
appreciably  been  stopped.  We  still  drift,  but  some- 
how, in  haphazard  and  careless  fashion,  manage  to 
make  some  sort  of  port  every  once  in  a  while. 

All  nations  have  at  times  serious  moments  of 
self-search  and  self-depreciation.  It  is  something 
like  the  old  spring  treatment  of  sulphur  and  mo- 
lasses. If  it  does  not  do  any  particular  good,  at 
least  it  does  not  do  any  particular  harm. 

More  than  once,  when  witnessing  certain  tenden- 
cies in  modern  sport  in  this  or  that  commercialized 
form,  I  have  felt  impelled  to  demand  in  piercing 
tones,  "Whither  are  we  drifting?"  So  far  as  can 

305 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

be  determined,  this  never  did  anyone  any  particular 
harm,  and  never  did  anyone  any  particular  good. 
That  things  have  continued  to  drift  pretty  much 
the  same  you  may  discover  by  even  the  most  care- 
less perusal  of  the  average  sporting  page  of  the 
daily  press,  where  you  will  find  baseball,  racing, 
prize-fighting,  football,  this  or  that  current  popular 
or  fashionable  sport  by  proxy,  furthered  and  fea- 
tured ad  libitum  and  sometimes,  one  must  confess, 
ad  nauseam. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  the  average  sporting 
writer  of  the  daily  page,  who  makes  his  living  from 
his  acquaintance  with  baseball,  football,  prize-fight- 
ing, racing,  etc.,  would  be  loyal  to  his  own  clientage, 
even  to  the  point  of  prejudice.  You  would  not 
expect  commonly  to  find  on  any  sporting  page  a 
word  adverse  to  any  of  the  commercialized  sports 
of  America.  You  might  opine  that  the  writers  of 
this  sort  of  thing  are  "lewd  fellows  of  the  baser 
sort,"  with  no  special  mentality  of  their  own.  That 
is  to  say,  you  might  think  this  if  you  had  no  special 
mentality  of  your  own.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there 
are  some  very  able  men  engaged  in  precisely  this 
form  of  journalism.  Some  of  them  are  brilliant 
men;  most  of  them  are  philosophers;  nearly  all  of 
them  are  keen  observers. 

Therefore  if  you  found  such  a  man  of  wide  ex- 
306 


WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING? 

perience  in  his  line  of  work  turning,  so  to  speak, 
upon  his  own  kind,  and  demanding  of  them  in 
piercing  tones,  "Whither  are  we  drifting?"  you 
might  be  entitled  to  a  feeling  of  mild  surprise — or, 
had  you  yourself  been  engaged  in  voicing  that  same 
earnest  question,  a  feeling  of  a  certain  exultation. 
I  may  confess  surprise  and  elation  when  in  a  recent 
issue  of  a  leading  daily  I  found  a  signed  article 
by  the  sporting  editor,  who  very  calmly  proceeded 
to  hang  on  the  fence  the  utter  and  entire  hide  of  or- 
ganized sport.  In  short,  although  himself  concerned 
in  a  business  way  with  baseball,  football,  racing, 
prize-fighting,  he  hesitated,  not  to  say  deliberately 
that  the  followers  of  these  sports  were  of  small 
use  to  their  country,  and  gave  small  promise  of 
becoming  good  examples  of  American  manhood. 
Brave  words! 

It  should  be  the  ambition  of  each  of  us  to  be 
remembered  by  his  fellow  men  after  he  himself 
has  ceased  to  be.  Such  has  been  my  own  ambition. 
Casting  about  me  for  some  definite  means  of  attain- 
ing this  post  mortem  result,  I  discovered  that  my 
own  sole  title  to  distinction  lay  in  the  fact  that  never 
in  my  life  had  I  seen  a  game  of  professional  base- 
ball. So  far  as  I  am  able  to  discover,  I  am  the  only 
one  of  something  like  a  hundred  million  Americans 
who  can  lay  claim  to  this  solitary  station  in  life.  I 

307 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

trust  to  earn  my  monument,  although  at  times 
tempted  to  fall.  In  this  way,  in  part  by  preference 
and  in  part  by  resolution,  I  have  built  up  a  vast 
ignorance  regarding  certain  of  those  things  over 
which  the  other  hundred  million  of  our  citizens  an- 
nually go  mad. 

A  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  in  the  metropolis 
of  New  York  not  long  ago  demanded  of  me  with 
tears  in  his  voice  why  Connie  McGraw  ever  allowed 
Willie  Collins  to  be  sold  West.  I  am  not  sure  that 
it  was  Connie  McGraw,  and  it  may  not  have  been 
Willie  Collins,  but  Eddie  Peterson.  I  am  quite 
clear,  however,  that  he  had  been  sold  West,  much 
to  the  shame  and  disgrace  of  someone,  as  slaves  at 
one  time  were  sold  South.  Still,  I  firmly  explained 
to  my  friend  that  I  neither  knew  nor  cared  why 
the  said  Collins,  or  Peterson,  or  whoever  he  was, 
had  been  sold  West,  South,  or  in  any  other  direc- 
tion. In  short,  I  had  no  baseball  shrine,  nor  knew 
the  saints  of  any. 

I  never  cared  to  pay  good  money  to  see  someone 
else  have  a  good  time.  I  loved  baseball — that  is, 
I  did  love  it  when  I  was  a  boy  and  played  it  myself. 
I  decline  to  pay  to  see  a  hired  man  play  it.  Were  it 
not  for  certain  damaged  fingers  on  my  hands  which 
have  ever  debarred  me  from  heights  in  the  field  of 
piano  or  violin — joints  acquired  in  the  exultant  days 

308 


WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING? 

of  youth  when  I  played  baseball  for  myself — I 
might  some  day  renew  my  interest  in  baseball  as  a 
sport — but  not  on  any  hired  man  basis. 

Strange  to  say,  this  was  precisely  the  same  con- 
clusion arrived  upon  by  my  sporting  editor  afore- 
said, and  he  reached  this  conclusion  not  by  reason  of 
any  definite  ambition  to  have  a  monument  builded 
over  himself  as  craving  the  recollection  of  his  fellow 
man.  No,  he  simply  said  what  he  had  to  say  because 
he  felt  it  and  meant  it.  In  the  light  of  a  calm  and 
dispassionate  reason  he  seemed — if  we  may  employ 
a  much  mixed  metaphor — to  be  standing  in  the 
way  of  his  bread  and  butter. 

The  writer  above  mentioned  stated  as  his  calm 
opinion  that  the  man  who  pursues  athletics  is  not 
and  never  was  a  fighting  patriot.  He  said  that  in 
the  Spanish  War  not  a  ballplayer  went  to  the  front, 
nor  any  professional  athlete  in  any  other  walk  of 
life.  With  one  exception,  not  a  boxer,  not  a  pro- 
fessional man  of  any  sort  ever  went  to  that  war. 
Again,  he  pointed  out  that  in  these  days  when  Eng- 
land needs  men  in  her  army  more  than  she  ever  did 
in  all  her  life,  she  is  not  getting  many  enlistments 
from  the  ranks  of  the  professional  athletes  or  from 
those  who  pay  to  see  professional  athletes  perform. 
At  one  football  game  there  were  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  spectators;  they  pay  a  tremendous 

309 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

gate  in  Great  Britain  to  see  professional  football, 
much  more  than  we  do  in  this  country.  Out  of 
that  entire  assembly  one  man  heard  his  country's 
call  and  enlisted  in  the  ranks.  Out  of  a  million  foot- 
ball players  and  football  payers,  you  could  count  on 
the  fingers  of  one  hand  the  total  enlistments  for  an 
entire  week  at  that  early  time  of  England's  greatest 
need. 

I  presume  that  in  this  country,  baseball  is  our 
most  highly  developed  gate-money  sport;  that  it  is 
more  fully  commercialized  than  any  sport  we  ever 
had.  The  shrewd  advertisers  of  this  business — and 
it  is  to  be  called  a  business  and  not  a  sport — have 
been  fully  able  to  hypnotize  pretty  much  of  all  the 
citizenry  of  this  country.  Some  of  our  wisest  and 
ablest  business  men  and  professional  men — lawyers, 
judges,  doctors,  merchants,  and  ministers — find  en- 
joyment in  watching  hired  men  of  no  loyalty  what- 
ever pit  themselves  against  a  like  number,  of  more 
or  less  similar  salaries  and  more  or  less  similar  pur- 
poses in  life.  If  they  like  it  there  is  no  law  against 
it.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  for  it  the  strong  law 
of  popular  custom.  Why,  therefore,  should  our 
sporting  editor  above  mentioned  take  a  fall  out  of 
the  attendants  at  paid  games? 

He  opined  that  he  would  find  witnessing  at  a 
baseball  game  more  men  disposed  to  sit  on  a  cushion 

310 


WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING? 

than  those  who  could  march  thirty  miles  a  day; 
more  men  able  to  criticize  the  umpire  than  are  able 
to  take  a  rifle  and  find  the  bull  at  five  hundred  yards 
on  a  gray  day  with  a  five-o'clock  wind.  He  was 
of  the  belief  that  more  of  the  attendants  at  such 
games  would  be  able  to  do  accurate  practice  with 
the  pop  bottle  or  a  seat  cushion  than  would  be  able 
to  lift  their  own  weight  a  hundred  times  on  the 
parallel  bars.  In  short,  he  did  not  consider  the 
average  baseball  fan  a  good  specimen  of  the  Ameri- 
can citizen.  And  understand,  this  was  his  con- 
clusion, reached  independently. 

I  do  not  know  that  it  should  be  the  one  ambition 
of  a  nation  to  raise  soldiers.  But  I  do  know  that 
soldiers,  a  lot  of  them,  good  ones,  may  be  needed  by 
this  or  any  other  country  on  mighty  short  notice. 
Where  did  England  get  them?  Where  should  we 
be  obliged  to  get  them?  Where  did  Germany  get 
them?  As  to  the  latter  nation,  it  certainly  is  true 
that  she  did  not  get  them  in  baseball  parks,  but  out 
of  turner  societies  and  drill  barracks.  In  Munich, 
in  Dresden,  and  other  towns  where  there  were  mili- 
tary barracks,  I  have  sometimes  seen  German  re- 
cruits being  trained  by  their  officers.  They  were 
not  taught  to  read  the  score  sheet,  or  to  recognize 
Mr.  Connie  McGraw  or  Mr.  Willie  Collins  on  sight, 
or  to  smite  the  umpire  in  the  twenty-four  ring 

3" 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

across  a  five-o'clock  wind  by  means  of  a  pop  bottle. 
No,  those  clodlike  chaps  from  the  farms  were  doing 
stunts  on  the  trapeze,  the  parallel  bars,  and  the 
vaulting  horse ;  I  looked  at  them,  sometimes  an  hour 
at  a  time,  through  the  cracks  in  the  fence,  just  as  a 
small  boy  peeps  through  the  cracks  in  a  baseball 
park  fence. 

Now,  without  argument  for  any  country  or 
against  any  country — and  surely  I  would  rather 
argue  for  my  own  than  against  it — and  without  ad- 
vancing any  cheap,  ready-made  conclusions  what- 
ever, let  us  just  take  the  facts  brought  back  by  some 
of  the  American  correspondents  who  saw  the  first 
line  of  the  German  army  in  its  westward  march. 
Those  troops  had  had  no  special  training  in  march- 
ing; they  were  only  a  few  days  afield;  they  were 
doing  thirty  miles  a  day  or  better  under  full  equip- 
ment, seventy  pounds  exclusive  of  rifle  and  ammu- 
nition. They  dropped  where  they  stood  at  night, 
worn  out ;  but  there  were  no  stragglers.  Where  did 
these  chaps  come  from  ?  The  baseball  parks,  or  the 
turner  clubs  and  barrack  drills?  They  were  not  to 
be  measured  in  the  terms  of  an  army,  but  in  the 
terms  of  a  citizenry. 

•  England's  army  did  not  come  from  the  pop  bottle 
and  seat  cushion  brigade.  Excellent  material  was 
found  among  men  who  took  sport  at  first  hand,  and 

312 


WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING? 

not  by  proxy,  who  played  their  own  ball  and  did 
not  pay  to  see  hired  men  play  it;  who  rode  and 
walked,  or  followed  a  plow  afield,  or  did  some- 
thing else  which  actually  exercised  mind  and  muscle 
and  built  actual  manhood.  The  English  officer  came 
out  of  amateur  and  not  commercialized  sport — 
personal  sport,  not  sport  by  proxy. 

In  the  opinion,  let  us  say,  of  more  than  one  sport- 
ing writer,  you  cannot  make  any  citizenry  better 
than  the  individual  units  of  it ;  and  you  cannot  make 
a  man  by  his  watching  a  fifty-cent  game  played  by 
some  other  man  who  is  a  man.  In  other  words, 
the  best  kind  of  sport  in  the  world  is  that  which 
develops  the  individual  as  a  sportsman  and  as  a 
physically  and  mentally  efficient  unit.  If  profes- 
sional gate-money  football  does  that  for  the  ob- 
server, if  professional  baseball  does  that  for  the 
observer,  if  professional  prize-fighting  or  horse- 
racing  does  that  for  the  observer,  then  I  must  say 
I  remain  yet  to  be  convinced,  and  still  ask  to  be 
shown  just  how  that  can  happen. 

And  yet  if  you  will  look  about  you  among  your 
own  friends  in  your  own  town,  you  will  find  so 
many  men  finding  almost  their  only  recreation  on 
the  old  Roman  Coliseum  basis.  They  pay  their  gate- 
money  to  see  athletes  perform;  they  are  not  them- 
selves athletes,  not  themselves  good  specimens  of 

313 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

manhood — or  at  least  not  so  good  as  they  would  be 
if  they  would  work  harder  and  not  pay  to  see  some- 
one else  work. 

If  you  want  to  sell  a  story  or  picture,  have  it  ob- 
jective and  not  subjective.  If  you  want  to  succeed 
in  business,  be  a  man  of  deeds  and  not  of  theories. 
In  actual  life  take  the  concrete,  and  not  the  abstract, 
as  your  creed.  Therefore,  applying  these  rules  to 
your  own  case,  should  it  not  be  plain  that  in  ob- 
jective baseball,  applied  baseball,  there  is  much  more 
benefit  than  there  is  in  the  abstract  or  subjective 
baseball  as  practiced  by  the  man  who  pays  a  fee  for 
his  entrance  ticket,  and  who  thereafter  leans  back 
and  criticizes  the  players  but  does  not  himself  play  ? 

Baseball  is  a  splendid  game — if  you  play  it  your- 
self. Football  is  a  splendid  game — if  you  play  it 
yourself.  I  played  it  for  four  years  in  my  own 
college  time,  and  I  loved  it.  So  far  as  it  is  an  ama- 
teur competition  I  love  it  still.  But  if  football 
became  a  professional  thing  in  this  country  as  it  is 
in  Great  Britain,  I  should  not  care  for  it  at  all.  I 
should  not  pay  to  see  it.  Neither,  I  fancy,  would 
my  sporting  editor  above  mentioned.  We  are  a 
minority  of  two  men  out  of  over  a  hundred  million 
now.  Must  we  remain  so  solitary,  gentle  and  think- 
ing reader? 

My   hardy   sporting   editor   is   guilty   of   these 


WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING? 

words:  "The  worst  effect  of  utter  abandonment 
to  sport  is  the  degradation  of  the  intellect  which  it 
brings  about.  The  young  Englishman  who  reads 
nothing  but  cricket  and  football  scores,  and  the 
young  American  who  reads  nothing  but  the  baseball 
and  prize-fighting  news,  are  simply  of  no  value. 
Their  minds  are  destroyed.  They  become  incapable 
of  any  thought  whatsoever,  of  any  noble  impulse,  or 
of  any  patriotic  conception." 

That  certainly  is  going  pretty  strong.  Pray  note 
that  the  remarks  are  placed  in  quotation,  and  that 
they  are  quoted  direct  from  the  writing  of  a  sport- 
ing editor  on  a  sporting  page  devoted  to  profes- 
sional sport. 

Take  a  scene  at  the  old  Coliseum  of  Rome,  in  the 
days  when  Rome  was  at  her  best  and  proudest,  when 
her  paid  attendance  at  the  games  was  largest,  when 
her  professional  men  had  the  most  money  and  the 
most  time  to  spend  in  watching  someone  else  furnish 
a  Roman  holiday.  Look  at  the  observers  of  the 
games,  and  then  at  the  players  of  the  games  them- 
selves— the  bloody  game  of  human  life  and  death  it 
was  sometimes,  the  test  for  the  survival  of  the  fitter 
human  being.  Which  side  of  the  Coliseum  rail 
survived — the  fighting  men  in  the  arena  or  the  men 
who  paid  to  lean  over  the  rail  and  criticize  them  at 
their  work?  There  are  holes  in  the  ground  where 

315 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

some  of  those  men  sat  in  the  Coliseum.  There  are 
cathedrals  elsewhere  built  by  the  descendants  of  the 
men  who  fought  in  the  ring. 

The  paid  idea  of  sport  and  the  individual  idea  of 
sport — which  has  survived  in  the  world  and  which 
is  going  to  survive  ?  And  where  did  the  barbarians 
get  the  sinews  which  made  them  worth  paying  to 
see  when  they  played  the  game  of  survival?  Did 
they  grow  strong  by  paying  to  see  someone  else 
fight?  No,  they  got  their  strength  in  war  or  in 
work,  in  sport  or  in  exercise.  And  when  a  nation 
comes  to  the  place  where  it  has  to  pay  to  see  some- 
one else  play  the  games,  that  nation  is,  at  least  in  the 
humble  opinion  of  a  minority  of  two,  on  the  na- 
tional toboggan  with  the  way  greased  for  a  quick 
and  easy  national  descent. 

If  we  could  reverse  the  scene  in  our  own  arena 
and  leave  nine  men  in  the  seats  to  watch  fifty  thou- 
sand citizens  play  baseball  on  the  ground,  then  base- 
ball might  be  of  some  definite  good  to  us.  That 
would  be  organized  baseball  worth  while.  If  the 
umpire  at  the  football  game  could  put  his  eleven  on 
the  seats  and  make  thirty  thousand  men  go  through 
the  motions  through  which  he  has  forced  his  team 
during  these  weary  months  of  training,  then  foot- 
ball would  be  the  grandest  thing  that  ever  happened 
for  America.  If  the  two  hired  scrappers  who  draw 

316 


WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING? 

a  big  gate,  inclusive  of  many  men  of  supposed  intel- 
ligence and  standing,  could  go  out  on  the  ringside 
seats  and  watch  five  thousand  men  in  gloves  do  a 
battle  royal,  then  boxing  might  be  of  some  use  to 
America.  But  all  these  sports  are  organized  on  a 
commercial  basis,  appealing  to  certain  instincts  of 
the  human  heart,  yet  not  exercising  any  of  the  func- 
tions of  the  human  body.  And  they  are  coming  to 
stand  for  sport  as  we  know  it  on  the  sporting  pages 
and  in  the  daily  life  of  our  country. 

Let  us  say  that  we  have  a  hundred  million  people 
in  America  who  go  to  see  the  baseball  games — or 
did  go  before  baseball  got  into  such  legal  messes  as 
showed  its  seamy  side  of  commercialism.  Out  of 
the  hundred  million  people  we  may  classify  some 
five  million  as  men  who  also  care  for  the  sports  of 
rod  and  gun,  of  the  field,  the  stream,  the  forest.  I 
presume  that  we  could  add  to  that  five  million  out- 
door men,  another  five  million  of  Americans  who 
really  care  for  their  bodily  welfare  to  the  extent  of 
taking  some  form  of  regular  physical  exercise  for 
the  purpose  of  keeping  physically  fit.  That  is  to 
say,  we  might  claim  ten  per  cent  of  our  citizenry — • 
ten  million  out  of,  say,  a  hundred  million — as  fur- 
nishing the  best  material  for  the  recruiting  of  an 
army.  Those  men,  individual  sportsmen  who  fol- 
low sport  for  its  individual  benefit  and  for  the  exer- 

317 


LET  US  GO  AFIELD 

cisc  of  their  own  bodies — on  the  Thracian  and  not 
the  Roman  basis — would  more  easily  make  soldiers 
than  the  average  man  of  the  other  ninety  millions 
who  perhaps  take  sport  by  proxy,  who  do  not  care 
for  their  own  bodies  to  the  extent  of  manly  physical 
sports  practiced  at  first  hand. 

But  the  query  comes  from  certain  departments  at 
Washington,  "Why  prepare  for  war  and  why  talk 
of  soldiers?"  Because  fitness  for  the  soldier's  game 
is  fitness  for  any  work  or  business,  almost  any  sport. 
Sport  by  proxy  does  not  make  a  better  man  out  of 
one;  it  simply  wastes  an  afternoon  for  him  and 
leaves  him  where  he  was  before,  plus  only  a  little 
better  knowledge  of  Connie  McGraw  or  Willie  Col- 
lins— or  whoever  those  gentlemen  may  be  if  rightly 
named. 

Blood  tells — but  it  must  be  real  blood.  If  the 
blood  of  the  Roman  Coliseum  told,  if  it  tells  today 
in  the  form  of  descendants,  it  was  the  blood  of  the 
survivors  in  the  arena  which  survives  today,  not  of 
those  who  paid  certain  sesterces  for  box  seats  on 
the  inside  of  the  rail.  If  the  blood  of  English  nobil- 
ity tells,  it  is  because  that  nobility  found  its  sport, 
not  by  means  of  paid  gate-money  entertainments, 
but  by  means  of  hunting,  shooting,  riding,  angling, 
swimming — all  the  sports  of  the  outdoors.  Those 
things  build  blood  of  the  sort  which  does  tell,  and 


WHITHER  ARE  WE  DRIFTING? 

which  keeps  on  telling — telling  in  business,  telling 
in  descendants,  telling  in  family  in  the  only  way 
in  which  family  is  Worth  the  name. 

But  paid  spectators  of  sports  do  not  produce  that 
sort  of  blood  for  very  many  generations,  not  unless 
they  have  other  forms  of  sport  as  well,  individual 
sport,  actual  sport,  sport  on  the  earth,  under  the  sky, 
by  the  waters,  in  the  woods — building  blood  which 
tells  today  and  tomorrow.  If  a  son  of  mine  con- 
tracted the  sneaking  habit  of  going  fishing  whenever 
he  got  a  chance  I  am  not  sure  that  I  would  lick  him 
for  it.  But  if  he  developed  a  predilection  for  pop 
and  cigarettes,  if  he  did  not  know  how  to  walk  or 
shoot  or  ride,  if  he  came  home  and  told  me  all  about 
Connie  McGraw  and  Willie  Collins  and  nothing 
about  trees  and  flowers,  methinks  I  would  keep  a 
large  paternal  slipper  in  pickle  for  his  anatomy. 

All  this,  however,  in  strict  confidence,  gentle 
reader.  Who  am  I  to  chide  you?  I  do  not  chide 
you.  But  the  long  years  of  the  future  will  chide 
you  if  you  are  not  a  man. 

(i) 


